


Oleander

by cosmicpeach



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Asperger Syndrome, Autistic Will Graham, Cannibalism, Hannibal is Hannibal, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Manipulative Hannibal, Mind Manipulation, Misuse of Psychology, Someone Help Will Graham
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-16
Updated: 2018-07-10
Packaged: 2018-12-13 09:39:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11757102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmicpeach/pseuds/cosmicpeach
Summary: There's no choice in whether Will wants to cooperate in the M.C.P's jobs. It's required of him, it's his duty, and Will would have been lying if he said he got absolutely nothing out of it. What sort of life would he have if he wasn't in a facility? He couldn't pass as a normal person, not with his eyes, and he can't touch people without them dying.It's better for him in here, where he can do something good with what he's been given.(AU in which Will Graham is a government secret, Hannibal Lecter is a cannibalistic super-villain, and Jack Crawford's attempts to keep them from colliding seem to fail in any universe where they might coexist)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Seems like I'm a few years too late for the Hannibal fandom, but I'm just gonna ignore that and put all this up here, because why not let my first proper work be about what's essentially a cannibalistic superman?
> 
> This work was inspired by a lovely piece of art made by Reapersun, which I haven't been able to get out of my mind since I first saw it: http://reapersun.tumblr.com/post/156366180217/support-me-on-patreon-reapersunpatreon-a

Will is four the first time his father strikes him.

He is also four the first time he watches someone die.

Unsurprisingly, these two events happen only several seconds apart.

The trailer park had been dreary. There was little to do besides count the number of bugs splattered against the windowshield and try to wave at his neighbors from across the way. Unlike their last stop, there were no other children at the park who’d answer his greetings or come out to play; the most interaction he’d gotten had been from a senile looking man who’d smiled with three teeth and had had a yappy little dog who cried and cried whenever he saw Will. But he’d been in spots like those before, and had known how to remedy his boredom just fine.

Whether his father would have liked his way of doing so had never been something he’d ever cared to think about.

That became clear the second he'd thought to go tromping around in the lot outside. It had just rained, then, and it was the perfect opportunity to go splashing through puddles and making mud pies. There had been no one to keep him from putting on his shoes and his rain jacket two sizes too big; his father was always gone during the day to try and make a quick buck wherever he could, and gone at night when he spent what little he had at whatever bar was closest to the park. None of the neighbors would have thought to tell him no. It wasn't their place to do so, and none of them could have known the consequences. 

Before dusk, Will had finally dragged himself back into their trailer, his shoes trailing dirt along the steps and into the cabin. He'd shucked them off without much care and flopped down on his springy little cot, wet and dog tired. 

That's where Will's memory got away from him. He's tried to convince himself it's his own mind trying to save him, repressing the moment down in the dark recesses of his psyche. Now, he understands that it's because his father's memories are that much stronger, and that Will, young and malleable, had absorbed it all as his own. 

He knows his father was angry about the mud, that he was drunk, that he'd been halfway ready to kill Will. He knows that his father had pulled him out of bed by the hair, had watched his writhing, struggling body, and found pleasure from his pathetic cries.His father had screamed and slurred, and he'd raised that hand to give Will  _exactly_ _what he deserved_ -

And then Will's father died. 

There's a slight fuzziness, the remembrance of a dead weight falling on him, of being trapped beneath a cooling body. There'd been tears, and cries for help which were answered with police sirens and an officer who'd had kind eyes  _(and a family, two daughters and a baby on the way, who he was sure was gonna be a boy and who he was going to name Anthony)_  who reached out to touch him too.

Understandably, after that, the rest of the authorities had panicked and tried to call for an ambulance. They called in a body on the scene, an officer down, and a kid. 

Two paramedics tried to coax him out from beneath the trailer. One gripped his shirt. The other grabbed his arm. 

It took three bodies (and a kid) for the black vans to come. 

The rest is unimportant. Will doesn't care to try and recall any of it, knowing that anything he could piece together would be far from the truth. Memories are funny in that way, always made a mess by emotions and feelings at the time, or marred by the ones in the present. The mind is an unreliable narrator. Will guesses that's why he stands on such shaky ground. 

"Shaky ground?" Dr. Chilton echoes, one brow cocked. His pen taps lightly against the pad of paper on his thigh. "You think you're unstable?"

"You and I already know I am." Will responds flatly. "You wouldn't be here if I was."

"Seeing a psychiatrist doesn't necessarily mean that you're unstable, Will. Many people have them, regardless of stability. Mental or otherwise."

He snorts. "You're acting like this is voluntary. You’re paid to see me, and I'm forced to see you. I'm not benefitting from these visits. Youare."

"Therapy doesn't work if you don't want it to." Dr. Chilton says, unruffled. 

"Then I don't want it to." 

That gains a frown from Dr. Chilton, and likely all others watching from behind the glass to his right. He sets his pen down, looks at Will, trying to reach his eyes. Will's rather glad that they'd glazed over with time and use of his powers, the cornea and pupil gone to leave a blank sheet of white behind. No one's able to see where he's looking if he's not tilting his head with his gaze. No one can correct him, tell him it's rude, tell him to look at them. 

"Why don't you tell me about what happened with your last case?" Dr. Chilton redirects the conversation a moment later. "I've been told you found it very upsetting."

Will tips his head back, staring up at the white panels on the ceiling, the florescent lights. He thinks of the sun and rushing water. He thinks of spring. "I didn't find it upsetting. It was just...overwhelming."

"Overwhelming?"

"Yes."

"How did you find it overwhelming?"

Dr. Frederick Chilton fakes sincerity, but his interest is genuine. He's curious, fascinated with Will's abilities. He doesn't need to read his emotions to see that. It's written all over his face, the way he clicks his pen again, prepared to start scribbling down Will's answer, his observations of his 'patient'.

(Briefly, he wonders what it might look like if Chilton were in those waters. What it might be like to hold him down there, to feel his heartbeat beneath his palm)

"It took him longer to die. It's always instant- they don't know that they're dying. They can't feel it. It just happens. But he..." Will takes a breath. "He felt it. He understood. He was scared. He was in pain."

Dr. Chilton’s head tilts just slightly. There’s a single click from his pen. "Did you feel sympathy for him?"

"I'm an empath, Frederick."

"Let me rephrase: did you feel guilt?"

Will blinks, weighing the question in his mind. "Yes."

It's the correct answer. Dr. Chilton eases. "The human brain is wired to feel some amount of empathetic pain. It's only natural that you feel it stronger than most."

Dr. Chilton drones on about something to do with everyone being empaths in their own right, and Will thinks back to spring. The waves lap at his brow, the sound of rushing water drowning out the rest of the world. Will stares passively ahead, nodding at certain points, talking without thinking. He knows what Chilton wants to hear and what will make the appointment go faster. 

Adam Brown waits for him in his thoughts. He was young, and had looked even younger when he was scared. Granted, he'd had the right to be; government agents had come for him, accusing him of crimes he didn't commit, and stuffed him in the back of a car. Adam hadn't known then what it was for, but Will had the unfortunate experience in all of it.

The Meta-Human Containment Program kept tabs on anyone who they thought had potential powers, tracking blood work and hospital records to try and filter through who had the right gene and who didn't. Some were born into their powers, some gained them. Will for example: his own had blossomed through "extreme stress". He was lucky to get taken in as a toy rather than be taken out as a threat. Adam Brown had been unfortunate enough to be considered a danger to national security. His power had been fluctuating as of late, and with the likelihood that he'd lose control, the M.C.P simply couldn't risk it. 

A walking nuclear power plant. That was what Jack had called him. It wasn't far off- his ability to absorb and release radiation was one that Will couldn't help but admire. He'd almost melted through the cuffs by the time Will had gotten to that white-walled room. 

 _I don't understand,_ he'd sobbed.  _I don't understand. Please let me go._

Will feels sick thinking about it. 

He's not sure if it's for the right reasons. 

Dr. Chilton brushes something off of his suit as he stands. Will tries to catch a glimpse of what he has written down on the paper, but it's turned and pressed against his side. "I think we'll have you out of this slump soon, Will." He says, offering a quick upturn of his lips that's not quite a smile. "Then you'll be good as new. I'll see you next week?" It's posed as a question, like Will has the choice of changing the date somehow. He nods anyway, watching Dr. Chilton leave the room. Guards come in right after him, gloved and armored, not an inch of skin in sight. Will's only just begun to wonder what they might look like. 

It's routine from there. The guards bring him back down halls and through locked doors, pressing in the code for his quarters and allowing him to walk inside on his own. The room seems smaller when the door's closed; it's larger than an actual cell, at least, with painted blue walls and a nice, polished wood floor. A twin sized bed is pressed the right wall, a TV mounted on the left, a few trinkets and tokens scattered around. Will looks over it all with neutrality. He feels no hate for the room, nor love of it. It's just a room or, at the very least, a nicely dressed cell. 

This has been his room for the past thirty odd years. It was thought he'd need some form of stability when he’d first brought in; so much had already changed both around him and in him, and making him comfortable, while not a priority, had been the least that they could do. Sometimes, Will finds himself grateful. Other times, he doesn't quite care. 

It's one of the 'other times'. He goes to sit at the edge of his bed, turning on the TV and flicking through the channels. He isn't allowed access to the outside world if it isn't planned and supervised, but he's at least allowed to look at it. It's a kindness that's cruel; being able to see, but not touch. It’s a terrible metaphor for his predicament.

The news shows nothing of importance or promise, but he puts it on as background noise anyways. The chatter of the anchors is better than listening to the howling of his own thoughts. He shucks off his (laceless) shoes and lays on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. His fingers fiddle with one another, making circles in the opposite palm, his thumbs pressing against the bone of either wrist. 

He's been seeing Dr. Chilton for a year now. Apparently, being wheeled around to pry information out of war criminals and meta-humans while also ‘humanely’ executing people for several years isn’t very good for one’s mental health. Alana Bloom, one of his main caretakers, had been adamant that he be allowed to talk to someone, and so Frederick Chilton had been brought to the scene. 

The man doesn't have much grace to him despite being an expert in his field; his questions never lead anywhere, and any analysis he's gotten of Will is probably bullshit. But it makes Alana happy to see even faked progress, and so he cooperates. 

There's no choice in whether he wants to cooperate in M.C.P's jobs. It's required of him, it's his duty, and Will would have been lying if he said he got absolutely nothing out of it. What sort of life would he have if he wasn't in a facility? He couldn't pass as a normal person, not with his eyes, and he can't touch people without them dying. It's better for him in here, where he can do something  _good_ with what he's been given. 

Will clasps his hands together, fingers intertwined, and breathes. 

An hour passes before it’s time for his less professional check up to begin. Alana is always there sometime after his appointments with Chilton. He would have liked her to be his therapist rather than him, but she's too involved to be considered a neutral party. 

"You okay?" Alana asks the moment she's in his room, the door closed behind her. She's wearing long sleeves and pants, but he can see her hands, her neck and face exposed. "Tell me the truth."

He sits up, hands sliding beneath his thighs. "I told Chilton-"

"You told him what he wanted to hear." 

Will stares at the floor. Alana seems to take this as some kind of defeat, sighing and pinching the bridge of her nose, looking at him like he's some poor, kicked puppy. "Look. I know that you don't like him. I don't like him either. But neither of us have to like him for this to work. Just- pretend that he's a wall. Talk at that wall. And if the wall actually says something important or helpful, then listen."

"You make it sound like it's easy. He tries to...pry me open, see what's inside me. He doesn't want to understand me so he can help me. He wants to understand me so that he can go and say he worked Empath's case. It's for his reputation, for recognition."

"Everything anyone does is for recognition. And don't tell me you're going to actually start calling yourself that."

"Call myself what?"

_"Empath."_

Will shrugs. "It's what I am."

"That’s your ability. That doesn't mean people should turn it into some codename for you.” She says. “And it demeans you. Makes you seem less...." Alana's face contorts, discomfort in her tone. "Human."

"Technically, I'm not."

"Human, meta-human, it doesn't matter. You're still a person." 

His noncommittal grunt seems to worry her, bringing their conversation to a sudden halt. She looks at him, and he looks at the wall, feeling her concern and fear. It doesn't crash into him like a tidal wave, just lapping at his toes.

It reaches his ankles as she inches closer, seeming to try and find the right words to say. "...I bought you new gloves," Alana says instead. "I couldn't get them in with me today. Security's tight right now, but Zeller is on shift tomorrow, so he'll let it through." Another pause. "I'll try to talk to Jack again about Chilton." 

It's not a promise, not really, but it's the best that she can give when it comes to dealing with the director of the program. Will lifts his head, offering a twitching smile. "I can deal with Chilton. Besides, I doubt you'll get anything through with him. It's too much of a security risk, having two people who’ve worked closely with me."

"Jack cares about you- no, don’t make that face, he  _does_ _._ He pushes, but he brought in Chilton to help. If he sees that he's not, then he'll find someone else."

"Who else is going to work with me?" Will counters, brows drawing together. "Being put in a room with someone who can kill with just a touch isn't very appealing to most people."

It takes him a moment to realize that that is exactly their situation.

He presses on, "I told you, I can deal with him. I'll do what you told me to. Talk to the wall, ignore the bullshit it spews, and take what rare bricks of wisdom it might drop on me." 

Alana smiles at him, genuine this time. She tucks a lock of brown hair behind her ear. Will shuffles around, hands twitching under his thighs.

His slumped shoulders tense as she moves, coming to sit beside him on the bed. It’s not the first time she’s come close, of course- she’s not afraid, even though she should be. Alana wants to make a connection somehow, reaching out every instance that she can. There’s a curiosity in her, an emotion that’s slinking along the surface, but Will can’t quite pick at what it is. It’s sincere, though, and something that he can cling to and leech off of as much as she will allow.

And he does. God, he does. His abilities are parasitic in nature. _He’s_ parasitic in nature. Will is selfish, and is sure that someday (the day he untucks his hands because he’s too comfortable around her) he will regret not pushing her away. But for now, he will take from her in small incriments. What she is left with in the end- it’s not something he wants to think about.

“You can talk to me. You know that, right?” She tilts her head, trying to meet his eyes. She’s learned how to read where his gaze is at, even if she can’t see it. “It can be about anything. It’s just between you and me.”

 _And the security cameras,_ Will doesn’t say, biting hard on his tongue. Instead, he says, “I know.”

“I can’t be your therapist, but I can still be your friend, Will.” Alana reaches out, placing a hand on his covered knee and offering a gentle squeeze.

He has the sudden, blinding urge to scream. Will doesn’t, though, because that’s not the right reaction to affection, and so he tries to smile.

Alana leaves, eventually. He sleeps, eventually. Morning comes. Eventually.

Zeller is on duty, as expected. He brings in Will’s tray of food, offers a warm “good morning”, and isn’t fazed when Will doesn’t respond. He strays from routine, though, leaving a small box right on the dresser before making his way out. Inside lay a pair of gloves, leather and new, that he slides on. It doesn’t exactly stop his ability, but it covers it, at least. Stuffing his hands in his pockets isn’t the safest solution, and the gloves aren’t a permanent one either, but they’re better than nothing.

Breakfast is the same as it’s always been. A hashbrown, some scrambled eggs, and two strips of bacon. What is brought in to drink can vary. Sometimes it’s orange juice, sometimes it’s water, and a few times it’s coffee. Will doesn’t know what causes the change, but he appreciates the small sprinkle of surprise in his morning.

Faceless guards come in fifteen minutes after he’s finished his meal, as they always do. They say nothing. They don’t touch him. They don’t have to. He already knows to follow, arms hanging at either side to let them know where his hands are.

(They’re so focused on his hands, all the time; every inch of his skin is just as deadly, but it’s only the hands that they’ve confined in the past)

The halls are white. Everything is white. Or mostly white, the floors and corners varying in different, lighter shades of gray. His jumpsuit fits with it, a pale blue that could meld into the walls if there was enough shine from the florescent lights. Will can’t help but wonder who decided on the color, and if they’d ever considered making it orange, just to fuck with him.

The jumpsuit stands out completely in Jack’s office. It’s dark, rich reds and blacks painting the walls and the few pieces of furniture around. Jack wears dark suits and ties as well, has dark skin, dark hair, dark eyes. It makes Will feel like an alien or an intruder. He’s come to the conclusion that that is exactly what he is.

The guards leave his side to stand by the door. They look stiff, but he can’t feel any real worry. He’s been in the facility without a single accident for nearly his whole life. It’s easy to think that, if he hasn’t lashed out by now, he won’t lash out at all.

“Will,” Jack says as a greeting, then gestures to the chair in front of his desk. “Take a seat.”

Will prefers to stand. He likes to pace around, if only so that his thoughts don’t have time to catch up with him. Staying seated and still feels trapping, almost. But Jack hadn’t posed it as a suggestion, and Will knows better than to pretend he had. He sits.

“How are you?” Jack folds his hands on top of the table, gaze set on Will. “Chilton told me-“

“I know what he said.” Will interjects. “I know what _I_ said. I just…said, I was unstable. Not constantly, only in that moment. I’m fine now.”

Jack doesn’t seemed fazed by the interruption, but his brow does raise considerably at the reassurances. “Really?”

Will nods. “Yes. Fine.”

Jack stares at him a while longer. His eyes narrow slightly, seeming to take Will in, flicking over his wild, curled hair and pale skin, searching the white of his eyes. Whatever he sees, he approves, and sits back. That’s simply how it goes. Even if Will is not-quite-good, Jack continues on as if he’s right as rain. He can’t afford to lose Will and his ‘services’, especially not when their branch of government is already being questioned for it’s usefulness.

“Good.” Jack says. He moves on from there, pulling a manilla folder out from his desk, presenting it on the table. With careful hands, Will opens it, laying papers out, one after the other. Three men and two women, all of them varying ages and races. Will glances over them all blankly as Jack goes on. “We’ve got a couple meta-humans on our radar right now. Most of them haven’t shown any signs of activity, but we’re keeping an eye on them. The one to the right- Mat Small- is our main concern right now.”

“Not the Ripper?” Will asks casually, flipping through papers. When he looks up, Jack’s face has become hardened stone. A wall blocks the way to his emotions. It’s not impenetrable, of course. With a bit of force, Will could break past it with ease. He doesn’t, though, merely watches from the other side.

A few seconds pass before either moves. Jack sits up taller, re-folding his hands. “No. Not the Ripper.”

“He hasn’t had any new incidents, then?”

“You should focus more on our current cases, Will.”

Will flips to another file. “I’m just trying to prepare for future ones.” His eyes flick back down to the profiles in front of him.

The Ripper is not a topic of discussion, or at least not one that is held for very long. It’s not because Jack if afraid of the Ripper- he is afraid of the conversation itself. He’s afraid of where that trail of thought might lead Will, of how even attempting to be in such a mind might affect him.

Will’s never bothered much to think about it. He knows about a crumb’s worth when it comes to the Ripper, and the only thing he’s seen from him is the carnage left behind.

For Jack’s sake, he drops it, and looks over the profiles properly. He doesn’t try to familiarize himself with the names or faces; if Will ever meets any of them, he’ll know exactly who they are once he’s done.

“So,” Will says looking over Mat Small’s folder, “Shapeshifter?”

Jack let’s out an affirmative grunt. Will can practically taste his relief. “Damn good one as well. You remember the last one we tracked down?” He asks.

Will nods. “Patrick Ferris. He could only mimic features, not voices.”

“This one’s better. A _lot_ better. Looks, speech patterns, fingerprints- he’s got everything down to a T.”

Will doesn’t miss a beat. “When’s he coming in?” It’s the first thing he always asks. Cases like these have agents swarming on them in an instant, so it comes as a surprise when Jack doesn’t immediately answer. Will brings his hands away from the sheets, head tilted just slightly. “You _do_ have him in custody, don’t you?”

Jack stares at him for a minute, resettling his hands again. It’s all Will can do from trying to push back at that wall he’s set up in the time that he’s silent. “Because of his…abilities, it’s been deemed too dangerous for him to enter any government building, especially with the chance that he might swap places and possibly uncover ‘delicate’ information if the processing goes wrong.” He explains. “That’s why I’m calling for an outside operation.” At Will’s blank look, he continues with, “You, going out with a few of our operatives in the field.”

To his credit, Will doesn’t burst out with an immediate _“No.”_ Still, sitting and staring at Jack unblinklingly is hardly better.

He does manage to say something, eventually, the kind of something he knows that Jack won’t want to hear: “What does Alana think about this?”

Jack offers a strained kind of smile. “I’m sure she’ll understand.”

 

Alana, of course, does _not_ understand.

She comes into the office relatively calm, and only starts putting up a fight the second Jack is done laying out his plan, and continues to fight as he tries to explain himself and said plan over again. Her points are as venomous as they are valid: Will isn’t in the right state of mind for something like this, there’s too much of a possibility that they might be exposed, and Will’s first proper introduction into the outside world shouldn’t be in this way.

No one asks him what Will thinks of it. He doesn’t bother to try and put it out there, either; for his own sake, Will forgets the fact that he is entitled to an opinion at all.

He sits passively as Alana leans over Jack’s desk, her palm flat against the wood, the muscles in her jaw jumping as she speaks. “You can’t really think this is a good idea.” She says, exasperated already.

“It’s a test run.“

“A _test run?”_ Alana’s tone pitches upwards in disbelief. “Are you _serious?_ You don’t “test run” human beings, especially not when they’re still trying to heal. I’m not going to buy into it, and neither is Frederick.”

“Actually, he has. Dr. Chilton thinks it’ll be good for Will, getting fresh air. Maybe even a different perspective.” Jack says. Will admires the way he’s able to convince himself that Frederick cares for his mental health in any capacity. He looks to Alana, then, her distress eating away at his brain as she stares, mouth opened just slightly. “Are you saying that you don’t want Will to start interacting outside the building?“

Alana’s teeth grind into one another, words hissing out beyond them. “No, I’m not _._ I don’t want him stuck in here for the rest of his life, but I don’t want to throw him out into the fray like this, and I don’t want to treat him like he’s not a person.”

(Will decides not to point out the fact that talking about someone like they’re not in the room makes them seem less like a person, if only to be polite)

“You’re making a mistake. The kind of mistake you can’t just sweep right under the rug. The kind that someone’s going to notice.”

Jack, who has remained in his seat for nearly the entire time, finally leans forwards. “Or, it could be the operation that gets a good notice. My higher ups have been at me questioning exactly what it is we do here and what kind of purpose we serve, Dr. Bloom. We need to show them what he can do.”

The underlying threat of what might happen if they are unable to do so is unsaid, but it makes Alana pale either way. Her fear is not for herself- it is for Will. It’s a warranted kind of concern, of course. Will’s not stupid enough to think they’ll find much value in him if the M.C.P is shut down, and even if they do, it will only be as a science experiment.

It’s a smart move on Jack’s part. She quiets, stands tall, but backs off all the same. Alana’s sentiment overrides her logic at the worst of times.

Finally, Will decides to speak, looking at the thin line of Alana’s mouth. “I’ll be fine,” he lies, because it’s what she needs to hear. She doesn’t look to him even as he speaks, only at Jack, who gestures to Will with a smile. He is encouraging this, but there is no other choice, or at least not one that would have a very happy ending for him (not that there is a happy ending anywhere in his future, but maybe a more ideal path).

“See?” Jack says, reeling his hand back in. “He said it himself. He’ll be fine. If that doesn’t ease your conscious, I don’t know what will.”

It doesn’t ease her conscious. Actually, it looks as though her conscious has been made uneasier if the wrinkle in her brow and the set of her jaw is anything to go by. Her gaze breaks away from Jack, finally falling onto Will. “You’re sure?” She asks, searching his milky eyes.

Will has an entire closet full of masks. They’re halved and broken, chipped paint covering the floor of the storage, but they work just fine for him. He picks out the sane man and lifts it to his face, speaking through the half smile of reassurance it offers. “I’m sure.”

That, apparently, is all the confirmation anyone needs for Will to be shipped off a week later.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The silence gives him time to consider a few things, specifically in this order: 
> 
> What he’d been told throughout the week, just as they’d begun to gather and prepared to dispatch their group, how Chilton would be eager to hear of his experience outside, and of any possible traumas brought on by it, and how this mission is going to go horribly wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, Oh. My. God. 
> 
> Thank you so much to Reapersun, who was so lovely and kind enough to promote this fic and get it off the ground. Thank you to everyone who's read, bookmarked, left kudos, and commented (and oh my GOD the comments, y'all are so so so sweet and I'm just a giant sap when I read them). I didn't think I'd get such a positive response like this for my first fic, especially not when it's just the first chapter! Just. Thank you, so much. I'm putting my heart into this for all of y'all.
> 
> But enough of that teeth rotting stuff for now. More important note: I'll be trying to update this fic every two weeks, possibly weekly if I get it done quickly. If you want to know how a chapter's going or when one is going up, I'll be putting updates on my tumblr, http://cosmicmilk.tumblr.com/
> 
> Also in this chapter, I'm incorporating a new character or two, one of them being Miggs, who I'm using pretty liberally here. He is more or less sane and doesn't throw semen at people. He's just an asshole.

Besides the few years where he’d been hopping from trailer parks and motel rooms, Will has only been outside three times in his adult life. The first was, technically, only a about a minute long; he’d been brought out just to be stuffed in the back of an armored truck, ready to be transported right along to another building for an evaluation by Jack’s peers and higher ups.

The second hadn’t been for much longer than the first; a supervised little trip just outside the main building that had only been brought on because of Alana’s insistence that he needed fresh air.

The third had been the only one he’d actually enjoyed. It was the same reason for the second, but with four-legged visitors that had happily licked at the seams of his leather gloves.

This fourth visit outside has no dogs. It doesn’t have Alana, the comfort of knowing the facility was just behind him, or even the familiarity of his jumpsuit.

What it does have is a constricting new suit, a bumpy truck ride, and cuffs around his wrists. He knows that they weren’t ordered by Jack, so Will assumes that it’s the field agents that have requested he be restrained. He doesn’t mind it. It’s understandable. It makes them less likely to want to start a conversation, at least, when he looks something like a prisoner.

It’s quiet for a while. He sits on a bench, one agent beside him, another across from him. Both seem preoccupied for the moment.

The silence gives him time to consider a few things, specifically in this order:

What he’d been told throughout the week, just as they’d begun to gather and prepared to dispatch their group, how Chilton would be eager to hear of his experience outside, and of any possible traumas brought on by it, and how this mission is going to go horribly wrong.

He certainly isn’t hoping or wishing for it to end badly. But bringing him outside with a group he doesn’t know, with a meta-human who can take any form he likes—it’s a recipe for disaster. Will won’t bother in ‘I Told You So’s when it does go wrong, both because no one will want to hear them, and because he is sure that Alana will beat him to the punch.

She’d been there at his send off, arms crossed tightly over her chest (an action which unintentionally acted as a dam for her worry, the waves only managing to offer sprinkles and a few fat drops as he’d been brought out for transport). He’d shot her a smile that she didn’t return. Will had run his gaze over the creases in her brow before the doors had slammed shut and he’d been pushed into his seat.

He knows that at this point she’s probably gone to pacing around outside. Or inside. Maybe she’s gone right back to Jack’s office to insult his poor planning, now that she can imagine more clearly the consequences of all their actions. It’s a picture that’s amusing enough for him to let out a soft huff of a laugh, smiling down at his hands.

“Something funny?” The agent across from his asks.

“No,” Will says, his mouth falling into a flat, neutral line.

There’s a soft murmur of  _“freaky fuck”,_ but Will pays it no mind. He’s heard worse, and the agent’s opinion matters little to him. The agent to his left seems to believe he took the insult; her soft nudge startles Will, his head snapping to the side to see her smiling at him. “Miggs’ an ass, don’t pay attention to him.” She says.

“Heard that, Katz.” Miggs shoots back (if Will were a poetic type, he would have described his expression as a snarl).

Will’s brows furrow. “I wasn’t.”

It’s quiet, then, and he thinks that maybe she’s been put off by him- there’s some discomfort there in the air, but it’s fleeting, leaving as soon as she scoots just an inch closer to him on the bench. “So, you’re Empath.  _The_ Empath.” Agent Katz eyes are alight, her gaze flicking over him. “You’re like an urban legend outside, you know that? The stories get a little out of hand sometimes, but I did kind of believe some. I actually had bets that there’d be more physical mutations than just the eyes.”

When Will opens his mouth to speak, he chokes on her curiosity. “Sorry that I loosened your purse.” He’s not sorry, and doesn’t sound sorry, but Agent Katz doesn’t seem to care either way.

“It’s fine,” Katz dismisses with a wave of her hand. “I don’t mind. They can take my money- the only thing they’ll ever know about you are stories. I’ll be the only who actually got to meet you. That’s worth more than a few bucks.”

It’s supposed to be a compliment. It  _is_ a compliment, and Will knows that. Katz is seeking a connection here, somehow. Will doesn’t know if it’s so she can try to get information she can dangle in front of her friends, or to try and make their short time together less impersonal. Maybe it’s an odd mix of both. Emotions and motivations are never as straight forward as he would’ve liked them to be.

“The stories are probably more exciting,” Will says. “I’m not interesting unless you like psychological theory.”

Katz looks at him like he’s just grown two heads (Will debates with himself for a second about whether he should check if he had, what with the talk of mutations). “Are you kidding? You’re  _fascinating._ You’re basically ground zero when it comes to the government’s knowledge on meta-humans. I’m pretty sure you’re the only one they’ve taken in and put to use like this, you know. You’re paving the way for future super agents.”

Will shifts uncomfortably in his seat, his fingers starting to play with one another. “Probably not a good idea.”

“What?”

“Meta-human agents.” Will says. “It’s not a good idea. I don’t think they’d ever get volunteers for it, if they set something up. Or they wouldn’t try taking volunteers at all.” A slight tilt of his head, and Katz’s eyes slide down to the magnetic cuffs holding his wrists together.

She frowns, seeming to prepare an apology in her head when Miggs lets out a scoff. “Rather see your kind of coffins than cuffs.”

 _“_ Miggs.“ Katz warns.

Miggs ignores her, leaning forwards, his elbows on his knees. His black, almost beetle-like eyes bore into him, a smile curling on his lips to reveal yellowed teeth. “You better watch out. Once you’re all gone, they’re gonna want to take out all the trash. Won’t be a quick ride for you-.”

 _“Miggs.”_ Katz is quick to snap.

The curiosity has leaked out of her, anger and annoyance written in the way she sits up, eyes narrowing at the other agent. That is all it takes to get Miggs to back down. He slumps back in his seat, arms crossed tightly over his chest; if Will actually listened, he’d probably be able to hear his mumbling. Katz occupies his ears, though, leaning in towards him. “Like I said. He’s an asshole.”

He lets out a soft hum of response. She can take it as she wants, as agreement or acknowledgment, he doesn’t really mind either way.

Miggs’ hypothetical situation is an unrealistic one. There’s no possible way that the M.C.P would ever be able to get rid of every meta-human, and even if they did, more would be born at some point, either by a dormant mutate gene in a parent or simply having the afflication by chance. The more realistic situation is that Will will lose his usefulness.

He’s considered the ways it might happen. He might be considered a hazard himself, the M.C.P would maybe lose its support and funding, or they’d possibly drain the power out of him by using his abilities too often. There’s more tumbling around in his head, a thousand and one scenarios he’s imagined. When there’s nothing to do, Will finds himself playing them over and over again in his head, if only to pass the time.

It’s not as dark as it sounds- it helps to keep him anchored, being so painfully aware of the situation. Besides, a bit of nihilism here and there never hurt anyone.

“You ready?” Katz asks a moment later. “I’m assuming you read the profile.” She pauses, still looking at him, like she’s waiting to see something that isn’t there. “It says he has a family.”

Will refrains from telling her that he knows that, and that he’d been studying the file for a while just out of boredom instead of preparation (there’s no real need to look them over, not when he gets to know them better with a touch than through paper).

She’s trying to pull vulnerability out of him. Once again, the reason isn’t very clear, though Will can make his guesses. It’s probably for another story to take back, of how she can describe him as some poor soul trapped in his place. More importantly, she’ll be able to see him as a real human being with emotions that are, in fact, his own, and not the biproduct of anyone else in his general area.

“They won’t get hurt.” He says, instead of everything in his head.

“That doesn’t really an answer to my question.”

“I’m as ready as I can be.”

“That’s really not comforting.”

Will looks at her, brow furrowing. “It wasn’t supposed to be comforting.”

Katz’s urge to spark conversation dies there, apparently, leaving the truck silent again. Will closes his eyes, twiddling his thumbs. When he tries hard enough, it’s easy to think of the bumps from the road as the sway of the ocean.

He is allowed his fantasy for an hour more before they come to a stop. The doors open, Miggs hopping out first; Katz has the decency to help him up and off their transport (not by touching him, of course, but by keeping a hovering presence at his side).

It takes Will’s eyes a moment to actually adjust, but once they do, he can’t help but stare. They’ve been dropped somewhere just outside a neighborhood, along a road that’s empty. But he’s not focused on what man has made. His attention is to the trees.

They’re not green and lush, like he’d wanted, like he’d hoped. Spring is what looks most beautiful on a screen, representing life and growth, offering a sense of hope and stability.

But _this._ The leaves have fallen at the edges of the road, settled at the trunks of trees, fanning the forest beyond with a carpet of reds and oranges and yellows. Small, soothing flames hang from the thick, twisted branches above, swaying on brittle stems, ready to fall but not burn out. Will turns his face to the sun for a moment, (just a moment) and feels the tickle of warmth on his cheeks. His lips part, like petals unfurling at first bloom, and breathes in the crisp air of autumn.

The way Miggs grabs at his wrists and unlocks his cuffs reminds Will that there is no time to savor this miracle.

The agent that’s come to the meeting point doesn’t offer a greeting, instead pressing at his ear and nodding to whoever is on the other line. “We’ve got visuals on the house, just to make sure he stays put.” He steps aside, gesturing to the parked car Will assumes he came in. “Back up is there if you need it.”

“Hopefully we won’t need it.” Katz says, and smiles. She doesn’t wait for it to be returned, probably because she knows it won’t be, instead heading to the car. Miggs follows, and Will stands there and realizes then that he hasn’t been briefed exactly on their transport. He’d assumed it would just be on the truck, but driving a heavily armored vehicle into a nice little neighborhood is just asking for attention.

But still. Will prefers the car over the truck. He makes his way over in a slight huff, sitting down in the backseat. The seats are much more comfortable than the metal bench, and it’s nice to sit without his hands being restrained.

Katz turns back to him, tossing a pair of sunglasses his way. “You two just let me handle this, okay?” She says, looking to them both pointedly. Miggs crosses his arms over his chest and looks out the window, Will giving a slight nod of acknowledgement as he looks out to the woods. The world’s a shade darker with the glasses on, but it’s best way to hide his eyes without looking so completely obvious.

They drive up through the street, passing quaint little house after quaint little house. Katz pulls to a stop in a driveway, finally, and they all seem to take a moment to look at the home before getting out.

Their approach is more casual, Katz and Miggs looking calm, even knowing what they know.

If anyone sees them, they won’t remember. If they do, they will be forced to forget.

He has been briefed on how this will go a thousand times over. They will go to the door. They will knock. Matt Small, or a family member, will answer, and they will say they explain through lies who they are, and that they need to take a look around. They will corner Matt Small to talk. He will have a sudden heart attack.

Except he won’t.

Whatever happens to the family after that is none of his business. Will is sure that Jack can do something for them, both to console and to keep quiet. No one needs to know about their operations, so it will all look like an unfortunate little accident. People died all the time—Mat Small will be as insignificant as the others.

The tension in Katz eases as she puts on a casual front, looking back to Miggs. “Don’t say anything, alright? I’ve got it handled.” She says, offering only a slight glare before turning her attention to Will. She says nothing to him, not really, but he gets the message anyways. It’s the same as it is to Miggs; don’t say anything, don’t do anything, let her take the lead. Will is very happy to do so.

He’d told Alana once during the week that he thought something might not work out as planned. She’d frowned, taken his anxieties as fear, and assured him that everything would be fine. Their team was efficient and everything would be cleaned up just fine, that this was probably just some misdirected worry about being outside.

As they strode forwards towards the house, Will had a small moment of idiocy where he thought that maybe, just possibly, she might well be right about everything.

It ends as the door is flung open.

(Will feels just a bit dumber for never thinking the problems would start outside)

A gargle comes out of Mrs. Small’s mouth as she chokes, blood bubbling in her mouth and puddling on their front steps. Only when she falls does anyone actually start moving; Katz and Miggs rush forwards, pressing their palms down against her throat. Rust covers their hands and the front of her shirt (and it’s green, the shirt is green, and all Will can think is _spring,_ life beneath blood).

Her eyes zip around between them all, her skin a ghostly white. It feels like they make eye contact for a moment as Will hovers above her, and he swears he sees a spark of clarity somewhere beneath the panic before they dull again.

His feet kick down the door and rush him inside, his body on autopilot, thinking only of what now is called for in the situation. There is no change in the plan, in his mind; he has come here with a purpose, and any way this goes, Matt Small will die. Will has done this before, many times, and he will do it again.

Except this isn’t a ritual. It isn’t routine. Will’s body, a traitorous thing, recognizes that in an instant. His hands shake, limbs trembling as they lead him down a hall. It isn’t white—it’s brown, chestnut. The air isn’t recycled—it’s stuffy and hot, the copper tang of blood hitting the tip of his tongue and assaulting his nose.

It’s not the same.

It doesn’t matter.

The sound of whimpers leads him forwards. Matt Small is leading him on, closer and closer with his next victim as bait.

The first thing Will sees are his hands. One is clenched around a knife; the other holds onto a girl, the knuckles white as she struggles and writhes, screaming and crying, as if that would stop steel from slicing her flesh. His body nearly envelopes hers, pressed into her neck.

It takes Will a second to see what shadows hide in his face. Or what could have been a face—it’s morphing, looking as though some dark, horrid thing is crawling beneath his skin.

“Matt Small,“ Will hears himself say, moving forwards still, because all he needs to do is touch, that’s it, then it’s over, all of it—

“Didn’t even get the name, did you?” Matt Small snaps, his own voice high pitched in panic. “You found me, but you didn’t even get the name! But that’s fine, right?” He looks up, and beyond the fear, Will sees something manic and animalistic. “You don’t need the name. You don’t.” He shakes his head. The blade presses into the girl’s throat, drawing a trickle of blood.

The erratic twitching of his features pauses for a moment. Matt Small’s eyes bore into his own, and he smiles. Will has to stop, once he realizes that his lips are beginning to sag right off his face.

His scalp splits in two, the slice that runs down his flesh bloodless and clean. He sheds himself of what is old, allows it to fall off of him like heavy silk, draping across the girl and onto the floor with a wet thump. The skin withers and dies there, wrinkled and cracked.

Will doesn’t pay attention to how the girl shrieks as her father’s face droops like some wax mask across her shoulder.

He’s too busy staring at himself.

There is a sickly sheen to his face, suit, and hair. Even the sunglasses look slightly wet, shining in the kitchens light, like he’s been drenched inside of a dry house (reborn, maybe, given life in this kitchen). Will is frantic, readjusting his grip on the knife over and over again in his new hands. He no longer smiles, lips parted for open mouthed pants to come through. When his head tilts down, the eyes are a stark white; they bore into him, and for a fleeting moment, Will seems calm.

He stares at himself, and says, _“See?”_

 

And he does.

Sees himself move. Sees himself bleed. Sees himself reach.

Will sees himself die.

 

There’s movement, somewhere. Footsteps—a sharp intake of breath, a pause. Movement again.

 _“Fuck, somebody get a medic in here,”_ someone says behind him. He looks to the window outside, the shades offering a barred view of the agents pulling up and surrounding the area. He looks to the floor, where the girl is gagging. She looks like her mother, lying there, staring up at him and the stranger-body of her father on the floor. Her mouth opens and closes, over and over, and her eyes remain remarkably present as someone presses a firm hand against her wound.

Everyone moves around him. As the girl _(Abigail,_ her name is _Abigail)_ is pressed into a gurney and rushed into an ambulance, Will is left to stare at his own body. It’s propped against the drawers, mocking, looking upwards with a blank stare that’s already begun to grow a little misty.

Garrett Jacob Hobbs' flesh suit lays in a crumpled heap on the floor, a performance shed to reveal the final act. It’s cleaned up and stuffed away for evidence before he can actually think to look at it.

“Going to be hard to clean up,” he croaks eventually to agent Katz, standing out on the front step. The body’s been moved, but there’s still blood there, taped off and being photographed. “This…all this.”

Katz stares at the body being carried out, and knows what face lies behind the sheet. “Yeah.” She says. A pause. She looks to the retreating ambulance, and then to Wills shaking hands.

There’s not much blood on him, save for the slight dotting here and there from the spray of Abigail’s throat, but he feels coated in it. Will wishes he could shed his skin, as Hobbs had.

Katz leaves him be. The agents don’t look at him, too busy trying to wave away the neighbors that have come out of their homes to investigate. He is left by himself. He stares up at the house. He stares from the lawn, and from the car he’s packed into, and doesn’t look away even as it rolls from sight.

Will’s hands don’t stop shaking. Hours after, tremors still run through him as he’s stripped of his suit and forced into a shower. Fingers run over his cheeks, his eyelids, and he imagines what it will be like when his Other corpse is cut open, if Garret Jacob Hobb’s will be flesh and blood, or a hollow husk.

He washes off the flecks of Abigail Hobbs’ blood, and presses his head against the smooth tiled walls, feeling like he’s filled with cotton.

 

“I _told_ you.”

“I know. I know you did, but-“

 _“No,”_ Alana Bloom snaps, looking less like a human being and more like a force of nature. “You don’t get to interrupt, because _I told you_ this would happen. I _told_ you this was going to get attention, I _told_ you that he wasn’t ready, and what did you do?” She doesn’t wait for him to answer. “You didn’t listen. You ignored me in favor of sending him out there unprepared, on some run that was completely unnecessary.”

Chilton, who has been seated silently beside Alana, uncrosses his legs, and speaks. “It wasn’t an unnecessary run, Dr. Bloom. He did have a target to take out.”

She doesn’t look to Chilton. Her eyes haven’t strayed from Jack since she walked into the room. “He didn’t need to go out there, though. We could have had a team go out and take care of it on their own. We’ve done it before—it wouldn’t have been hard.”

“I know we could have.” Jack says, clearly exasperated. “What happened is on me. I get that. I take full responsibility. I’m the one who put him out there, I’m the one who’s dealing with the shit that’s blowing back from this whole thing.”

His features seem to drag, then. It’s been a long day; that much can be seen by the paperwork taking up the majority of his desk. His phone would have been ringing if he hadn’t unplugged it.

“So we’re done with this. No more putting him out in the line of fire, no more outside missions. We’re done.”

There’s silence as Alana waits for an affirmation from either, or both. Neither say anything.

“I’ve talked to Mr. Graham, and he says he’s still willing to work.” Chilton says. “The events that transpired weren’t planned, no, but that doesn’t mean we should stop altogether. We’ve had mishaps in the past and we’ve dealt with them just fine.”

 _“And_ this wasn’t our regular kind of case,” Jack hops in just as Alana opens her mouth to argue. “We’ve only dealt with shapeshifters once or twice. We couldn’t have known we’d have a case of misidentification like this.”

Alana’s eyes narrow into slits. “Don’t start acting like you didn’t know the risk you were taking. And Will agreeing to stay with this work shouldn’t be the deciding factor. He just saw someone bleed out and another almost murdered—he killed someone who looked just like him! No one can just go through that and carry on like nothing happened.”

“So you don’t trust Mr. Graham’s judgement? You think he isn’t capable of making his own decisions?” Chilton fires back.

“What? No, that’s not what I’m saying-“

Jack leans forwards in his chair. _“Look._ I understand why you’re worried. I’m worried as well. But he won’t be going through this alone—he’s got you and Dr. Chilton here with him.”

That doesn’t bring Alana any kind of comfort. She pinches the bridge of her nose, eyes closed for a moment as she attempts to collect herself and keep from saying anything particularly harsh. When she opens them, Alana’s gaze finally does stray between both Chilton and Jack. “If you’re going to do this, just…make sure he has distance from it. I don’t want to see anything else like what just happened.”

“I can’t guarantee it won’t, but I’ll try.” Jack says, and offers a reassuring look. He expects a smile back, and his own expression falls when she fails to offer it up. “I’ll have to keep him in for a couple days, if that makes you feel any better. I’m up to my elbows in reports right now. The public wants a written statement on what happened.”

“What are you going to tell them?” Alana asks.

“Whatever I’m told to tell them.” Jack says. “We’ll cover it up just fine, like we always do.”

Alana and Chilton believe him, for the most part, trusting in the government’s powers in keeping everything hush hush. They leave Jack to his own devices, to fill out paperwork and take calls when he pleases.

There’s a moment, later on in the night, where he believes that everything can and will be worked out. His superiors have stopped calling, and there’s only two more stacks of papers to go through. He sits back in his chair, hands behind his head, and sighs. His doctor will kill him for the spike in his blood pressure for sure, but Jack is sure this will all fall away in a matter of days. Murders happen all the time, and the media’s interest will move on from ‘Matt Small’ towards his daugher’s recovery story. They like miracles, and surviving an attack like that will strike a chord in America’s heart.

(Whatever she says that might be unusual or unnatural can be swept under the rug as trauma messing with her memories; doctors and therapists can be paid off with the right amount of money and incentive)

Jack is certain of all of this for exactly two minutes before his phone pings. He frowns, swiping his thumb across the notification. “Shit,” he says, rising up in his chair. “Shit, shit, _shit—“_

The article, in itself, details nothing particularly different or significant to the other numerous columns on the case in the beginning. It explains the crime, Matt Small, and, briefly, the current state of Abigail Small.

Only after the first paragraph is what causes Jack to continue his string of _shit_ ’s.

> _The local police will have you believe that this is just a case of psychosis from an ailing father, who had tendencies for violence towards his family. The government will have you believe this is something to sweep under the rug. But myself, and my readers, know that this is far from the truth, and whatever that truth might be, it’s far bigger than the tarp they attempt to cover it up with. This crime raises the question from whether Meta-Humans simply live amongst us, to whether they might be living and working in higher offices._
> 
> _“There’s two bodies on the scene,” Officer Sanchez informed. “Matt Small and his wife. I haven’t been able to see his body yet, but…something’s not right there.”_
> 
> _After this interview, he refused to offer any further comments, but this is damning enough. What happened to Matt Small’s body? Why haven’t any records or pictures of the corpse been sent from the morgue? Why have the authorities refused to explain why government mandated vehicles were present at the scene, if this is a simple crime?_
> 
> _And who, exactly, is this man?_

Jack doesn’t read anything else once he scrolls down to see the picture. It’s a single shot in front of the house, zoomed in from a camera’s view, of Will, standing still and shaken. The blood dotting his face have been brightened and enlarged, just to make the scene seem that much more gruesome for any reader to imagine.

Readers who are hitting the site, coming in hoards, all of whom will take Tattle-Conspiracy’s words first over any police report.

Jack stands only to kick his desk in frustration, knowing he’s well and thoroughly fucked as the phone starts shrieking again.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few fingers curl at the base of his neck, saved from contact by the collar of his jumpsuit. It feels like an owner sliding a collar over some stray dog they’ve found, tightening it to fit and clicking on a neat little leash to tug this feral animal around as they please. 
> 
> Jack smiles. “We’re going to do great things together, Mr. Graham.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, so remember what I said about those updates every two weeks? Sorry about that. 
> 
> I will be TRYING to meet my own deadlines! School is currently killing me, but I'm getting back into the swing of it and will be right and fit soon enough!
> 
> Also, as you might have noticed, I added a few new tags to this whole thing. Honestly, I didn't think I needed to since it's essentially part of the character as I see him and a minor part of the story, but I felt like it needed to be included all the same, especially since this chapter makes a few mentions of it.

Will is baby-faced and twitchy and thirteen.

His hair has grown from it’s usual shorn cut, fluffing out on every direction in an unruly mess of tangles and curls. His jaw is just beginning to make an appearance somewhere on his face, the beginnings of defined and frail features, but just only. His neck is long, and his skin is pale. There’s still a slight drawl of Louisiana in his voice, one that he’s trying to grow out of completely.

A nurse who is too kind and holds contact for too long once told Will he was handsome. He’s not too sure if that’s true; whenever he looks at himself in the mirror, he doesn’t see anything particularly handsome. Just a boy in a jumpsuit, sitting on his bed, staring and trying to find something that’s not there.

There isn’t much time to look at mirrors, now. Ever since he hit ten, men in lab coats and heavy padded armor have been carting from left and right, always babbling on about how his DNA is so fascinating, how his abilities are incredible, how they’re very lucky to have ever gotten such a unique little test subject.

And the tests—they’re not terrible, really. It’s just always him sitting across from someone, visible or hidden by a black visor, watching and waiting for his cues to speak. You feel sad, he’ll say. You feel happy now. Now you’re disappointed. Disappointment tastes bad.

Can you be more specific? The doctor will ask, gentle tone edging on annoyed. I’m not asking how it tastes, Will. I need you to tell me exactly what I’m feeling. Tell me if I’m lying to you.

So, Will does tell him when he’s lying. It’s easy. There’s always a spike of doubt and fear and knowing before everything settles again, the ripples gone from the sea. All the scientists are very impressed, talking amongst themselves as they pluck the little white suction cups from Will’s head, data stored for later examination.

None of them ever really talk to him. Will doesn’t really want them to. He’s always content to just sit and watch, legs kicking back and forth, clutching the sides of his seat as adults putter about around him.

One time, after a test, the doctor gives him a sweet. He sticks it in his mouth and sucks on it till it’s dissolved on his tongue, jittering afterward in his room. He hears them call it “positive reinforcement”, and they keep up the treatment with each test. If he does well, if he’s able to give them what they want, he gets a sweet. Will finds that it’s a wonderful little set up for himself, and it makes him eager to go into the lab for a while.

It ends when, after, as the doctor was handing over his treat, Will had stuck his hand out. The doctor had flinched back, and Will had smiled, happily chirping that he felt fear (he doesn’t question why; he’s never been asked why someone might feel any sort of way). The doctor had looked at him funny and tucked the packaged treat away.

There haven't been any sweets since then. The tests have been nothing special, just visors and questions, scientists talking back and forth, ping-ponging ideas off of one another.

Most of the time, Mr. Krendler (a tall man who’s only just recently taken over the project) watches over it all like a hawk. Will never has to look to check; he’s there, always, from the hallway or the corner of a room. He’s tall, and a little plain looking, and his eyes chase after the nurses most times, but he keeps everything in check. He’s there to make sure that no test goes too far without his say-so, and if it is too far, that it’s under his own supervision.

“We’re going to try something today, Will.” Mr. Krendler says, sitting down on next to him on the lab table.

Will cocks his head to the side, eyes wide as he asks, “What is it?”

“It’s not going to be hard. It’s just like what you’ve done here. A test. But now, it isn’t just a run. This is the real thing.” He says. “It’s very important you get this right. You’re a smart kid—you can manage that, can’t you?”

Will can, and expresses that he can rather happily. Mr. Krendler smiles and pats his shoulder, moving on to murmur something to one of the attending scientists standing not too far away. There’s excitement bubbling then, little jittery bugs weaving over and under his skin. It’s an electricity in the air from Mr. Krendler and the assisting crew, one that Will can’t help but reflect. But the excitement is his own, in a way; Will wants to be useful, wants to do something new and worthwhile, that will make someone feel even an ounce of pride in him.

This itching need for praise makes him put on his best face and best behavior, even as he’s poked and prodded a few times in preparation.

The room they take him to after is one he’s never seen before. It’s plain and dull, with heavy florescent lights above. A table separates two plain chairs, and a large, black mirror faces the furniture from the wall. Mr. Krendler leads Will to sit down, his hand twitching before he touches Will’s shoulder with a soft pat. There are no reassuring words to come along with it. Will wriggles under the grip, ignoring the need to shrug it off.

His touch remains as Will hears the door behind them open. He tries to twist around to see who it is, but Mr. Krendler holds him in place firmly (not harshly, or violently, but simply keeping his hand still and his grip firm so that Will knows better than to try and struggle). It isn’t a particularly long wait to see who comes through, and Will can’t help but stare in awe.

The women he has seen around the facility always seem a little bland, all looking alike. He understands now that it’s part of the dress code, and that all women don’t have their hair tied up in tight buns and wear clinical gowns and uniforms. But the one who comes in, heels clicking as she walks, has him dumbstruck. She’s not very tall, and certainly not as pale as he is; her mouth is red and her eyes are blue, (or green? Maybe both) and her hair is short and curled around her shoulders. It’s red, but not quite red, and Will feels the distinct urge to try and touch it.

He doesn’t. He stays still and stares as she sits down on the chair opposite to him.

“So,” She says. Her eyes are sharp as she stares down Mr. Krendler. Her voice is warm despite it, smooth with an accent. “You’re running a daycare.”

Mr. Krendler smiles. “I know he’s young, Starling, but he’s one of our best.”

“He’s the only one you’ve managed to keep. That doesn’t mean he’s your best.”

A pinch of anger manages to escape Mr. Krendler, but his voice is just as clear and calm as before. “The others were flukes. They were unstable. But Will here,” Mr. Krendler pats his shoulder. “He’s perfect. He’s been working hard. Haven’t you, Will?” He looks down at the boy. Will nods his head with a slight smile. It’s the first time Starling actually looks at him. “I think he’d be useful in the field—or just in here, if you’d give him a chance.”

“We can’t take chances with meta-humans.” Starling looks at Will, seeming to assess him for just a moment. “But I’m not here to try and make that decision.”

Mr. Krendler smiles, victorious. “That’s right- you got demoted to being a messenger, didn’t you? After-“

“If you wouldn’t mind leaving, I’ll start my assessment of your subject now.” Starling watches him. Her eyes are cold. “Unless you’d like this ‘messenger’ to send another report of harassment.”

Their gazes are locked, a silent but primal fight for dominance in the stuffy room. Mr. Krendler is forced to relent after a moment or so, head jerking to the side as he mutters something under his breath before making his exit. Will flinches a little as the door slams shut.

Even with Krendler gone, Starling doesn’t look at ease. But it’s not fear he feels—there’s no tense anxiety or concern for her wellbeing or anything of the like. It’s just a blank canvas, true neutrality as she considers Will once again. She’s unreadable, and Will can’t help but want to push back and dig his fingers into that untouched, fertile soil.

“Can you see?” She asks after a beat.

“Yes, ma’am.” Will nods, and makes a vague gesture to his eyes. They’re not quite white, but misty looking, the pupil greyed and the iris a milky sort of blue. “It’s just my—they told me it’s because I’m using my abilities often. Nothing’s wrong with them.”

“Right.” Starling doesn’t look convinced. “You’re not looking at me though.”

“It’s—it’s uncomfortable, ma’am.”

“Why?”

Will frowns, gripping the edges of his seat. It’s not the best kind of anchor, but it works. “It makes it hard to think. The rest of everything kind of goes away when I look at people’s eyes, and it makes me feel sick.” Will swallows thickly. “Makes me feel like somebody’s staring at me.”

Starling watches him for a moment or two. The cogs in her brain are turning, twitching as they work with the information he’s just given her. It’s not particularly interesting stuff, and not something anyone’s asked him before.

Whatever it is that she takes note of, she stores away for later use. Will wishes that he had telepathy rather than empathy in that moment, and in many other moments before. He only has emotions to work off of—nothing concrete or solid, like thoughts. He’s working with a puzzle that he can’t complete, left with only a sour, half-finished image.

Starling seems just a little kinder, then, offering just the slightest smile. “Alright, Will. I better get down to the real business here. I’m going to tell you a few things. Couple of them are going to be lies. You’re going to catch me in it. You ready?” She asks and Will nods. “Good. Tell me when.”

And so he tells her.

She listens, and nods, and speaks, and doesn’t let him in on anything. But Will knows he’s right; he can feel the slightest twitches of her personality flaking off when something she says doesn’t seem quite right. The session doesn’t last too long; Will is used to playing this kind of game for hours, but Starling only gives him thirty minutes or so before she stands and dusts off her skirt. She doesn’t really say goodbye, just offers him a sort of odd, sympathetic glance before exiting. Will swears he can hear the click of her high heels echoing in his head even after she’s left.

Whatever kind of test it had been, Will fails it. Miserably. Mr. Krendler is quietly furious, rubbing at his temples and pinching the bridge of his nose whenever Will is around.

“The spectrum,” Mr. Krendler says when they’re in the lab. He’s talking to one of the attendants, smacking the back of his hand against the piece of paper he’s holding. “On the fucking spectrum, can you believe that?”

The attendant offers a helpless shrug. “He does fit the usual type. It lines up.”

“Didn’t mean she had to write a whole report on how we’re abusing and experimenting on some disabled kid.” Mr. Krendler sighs and glances at Will from the corner of his eye. “It doesn’t matter, though. They’ll let it slide. He passed what he needed to—this place already breaks enough morality clauses that they’ll turn a blind eye to that fact.”

Starling’s visit doesn’t change much about the way he’s treated or the things he does. Everything slides back into the routine, easy and smooth.

 

Starling does not make another visit, to Will’s dismay. There’s the occasional comment about her from Mr. Krendler, though they're tinged with bitterness that Will doesn’t want to associate with her memory.

That kind nurse isn’t exactly a substitute for her, but she looks similar. Her hair is unruly like his own, sticking out from the bun no matter how many times she tries to tie it back up. There are freckles dotting her upturned nose and cheeks, and her breath doesn’t smell like smoke when she speaks. “How many inches have you grown? Two? Three?” She’ll ask him almost every week, taking the time to measure even though it isn’t required. Will knows that she puts the bar a little higher than his head actually meets, but he plays along anyways.

His fourteenth birthday is the only one that’s actually celebrated. The ones before have passed without any real recognition besides a dismissive mention. Will’s never been bothered by it, honestly; it wasn’t like he’d had that great of parties before all of this. He remembers his dad would just give him a pack of gummy bears and a pat on the head, remind him how many years it would be before he could start pulling his own weight in their family of two.

It isn’t a big party, but it’s closer to the actual image of what a birthday is supposed to be. Will comes into the examination room in a wrinkly, itchy dressing gown. The nurse (he’s learned her name’s Lily, as she’s insisted he call her that rather than ma’am) is waiting for him, as per usual, her excitement barely contained and bubbling to the surface. There’s no time to question what she’s so happy about before she brings both her hands forward, a tiny cupcake pressed into her palm.

The icing on top has been smeared and flattened down, and the holder is a flimsy dotted paper. Lily smiles so brightly he’s nearly blinded by her teeth and dimples. “This can be our little secret for your special day.” She says as Will takes the cupcake from her.

It confirms the creeping thought that this isn’t authorized and that she might get in trouble for doing this, so he doesn’t really take the time to savor the treat. Will hastily rips off the paper and stuffs it in his mouth, nearly choking on the sweetness and the spongey vanilla before he swallows it whole. He offers a thank you beyond his stuffed cheeks.

As Lily checks him, Will is sure to wipe clean any sort of remnant of the cupcake from his mouth, running his tongue over his teeth, swallowing enough times that Lily gives him a funny look and asks if he’s alright. He just doesn’t want her act of kindness to get her kicked from the program; Mr. Krendler’s been cracking down on the lab attendants and scientists, and he won’t be afraid to let one of their nurses have it either.

The cupcake isn’t what gets her fired, though. She stays for a few more months, and her smiles disappear as he comes in with a buzzcut, and multiple circles shaved into his head, making a fuss when the skin of his scalp appears red and agitated. Lily tells him she’s going to have a word with Mr. Krendler, ignoring the way he begs her not to.

He doesn’t know if Lily leaves or is fired. Will just comes in for the next examination with another nurse on duty who doesn’t answer his questions. She smells like forty years of smoke. Will feels suffocated by it the few rare times she chooses to speak.

 

He is sixteen when they want him to touch someone again.

He’s been without human contact since they’ve gotten him. They’ve been careful not to let him touch anyone. There’d been a few tests where he’d touched plants, objects that were technically alive but not sentient, but nothing had come of it. Will supposes he should be surprised that they want him to do this now, but it’s about right. They’ve repeated tests for over twelve years now—they want their new data, and he’s not really a child anymore.

They need to test their theories of whether he can only kill when he’s in extreme distress, or simply through a touch. There’s been no way to test it without someone making a fuss.

Will is set up in a quarantine area, the doors locked and the windows thick glass. There’s just a table, a chair, and a machine set up on the side to collect Will’s brain frequencies for further examination once this is all over. Mr. Krendler and a few scientists watch from beyond the glass, eyes wide and eager as they stare.

Will is sat behind the table. In front of him is a cage with two rats. They’re white, pink noses twitching as they scurry to every corner of the cage to try and see their new surroundings. Will feels a horrible sense of dread and an overwhelming amount of guilt.

“Go on, Will,” one of the head attendants says through the microphone, one of the rats squeaking in response to the static.

Will says nothing, just stares at the two furry little creatures. They’re just animals—dumb, stupid little animals who don’t know where they are or what’s going to happen. Even when it does, if it does, they won’t know the reason why. They won’t understand any of it.

Krendler manhandles the microphone towards himself. “Come on, Will.”

Will brings his hands upon the table, but they’re balled in fists on the cool metal. One of the rats turns to him curiously, hopping up towards the side, climbing up on the bars.

“I’m sorry,” Will whispers. He raises a fist, forcing it to uncurl. His fingers tremble as he reaches out, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth and breathing out a string of apologies. The rat tilts its head towards his finger.  _It's a stupid animal,_ he tells himself.  _Just a stupid fucking animal._

There’s the feather-light sensation of whispers brushing against his skin, a wet nose just pressing against his fingertip—

The rat lets out an unholy sound, a squealed cry withering up in its throat. It seems frozen as it falls away from the bars, stiff and unnatural as it lies at the bottom of the cage. The other rat is quiet for just a second before it’s crying out, sprinting around the cage and avoiding the body at all costs, scratching and biting at the bars around it.

Will retreats as soon as it’s over, an itchy kind of wetness gathering up at the edges of his eyes. “Why the second one?” He asks to the glass, voice hitching near the end. His fingernails are biting into his palms, leaving angry red crescents in the skin.

No one answers him. Someone comes in and takes the rats away, one screaming and one dead. Mr. Krendler gives him a big smile. There’s no pat on the shoulder this time. Will wouldn’t want to touch him either, after what they’d all just seen.

 

“Our branch is expanding because of you, Will.” Mr. Krendler tells him. They’re in his room, Will on his bed and staring at the TV on the wall. Mr. Krendler is sitting on a chair just to his left. “We have several more meta-humans in custody, and we’re testing them just like you. Isn’t that exciting?”

“Where are they?” Will asks, not turning his attention away from the screen.

“Separate facilities. It’s too much of a hazard to keep all of you housed together right now. I’m hoping that sometime in the future that we can do that.” Mr. Krendler smiles. Ambition and hope and a hunger for something Will doesn’t quite know yet leaks through as he scoots just a little closer. “You might be able to go out there and fight for your country one day, put in troops with people like you.”

“So I’d be a weapon.” It’s not a question. Will is eighteen now and knows his place in the program.

Mr. Krendler shakes his head. “No, no. You’d be a hero, Will. You’d go down in the history books. They’d detail how you jumpstarted this movement for all of your kind.”

Krendler doesn’t want fame for Will; he wants fame for himself. It’s understandable, in a way. He’s given a good few years of his life to this program, pulled strings that shouldn’t have even been flicked in the first place. Krendler wants to get something out of this, and he’s going to some great lengths to meet his goal.

“Are they all like me?” Will asks.

“Of course they’re all meta-humans—“

“No. I mean, did they all sort of…have they always been in the program? Like I have?”

Krendler hesitates before shaking his head. “No. They haven’t. But that’s why you’re our special case—you’ve cooperated with us since day one. You’ve given us knowledge that we couldn’t have gotten otherwise. That’s something to be proud of.”

Will isn’t proud of it. He doesn’t feel like he should be, and that isn’t why he asked. It’s just something that tells him those strings Krendler’s been pulling at have gone farther than he’d expected. The meta-humans they’re taking in to train, or experiment on, or whatever else, are not willing participants. Will’s not even sure if he can count himself as a willing participant considering he’d had no other option. The M.C.P doesn’t seem to care about that, though, and it’s not good to worry over something he has no control over.

“I’ll be visiting one of them soon, actually. I’ve got to make my rounds since I’m the head of the program. Everything’s got to be in shape for when our superiors come around for another check.” Mr. Krendler stands up, gaze flicking towards the TV. It’s a sitcom, the subtitles on even though the volume is on. He frowns, shaking his head. “You’ll rot your brain staring at that all day. Then what are we going to do with you?”

“I don’t know.” Will shrugs. His eyes, only visible by the grey pupil, finally meet Mr. Krendler. “I’m not good for much else.”

It’s not meant to be any kind of joke, but Krendler gives a stiff laugh anyways, walking out of Will’s quarters with a slight wave goodbye.

It is the last time Will ever sees him.

 

He is told it’s an accident. A terrible, unfortunate accident that he has no business looking into. No one answers his questions when they’re asked, and everyone seems to pretend as though nothing happened at all. Boxes are moved out of the director's office quietly but efficiently. The entire staff looks shaken for several days.

Will only gets the information he wants by accident. He’s waiting in the lab for further testing, leaning against the examination table as the attendant overseeing him makes a quick exit to find some instrument in another room. The guards stationed at the door pay him little mind, talking back and forth in a muttered conversation. They don’t see him inch closer to nearest table, brushing a few papers away from a file labeled PAUL KRENDLER.

The manilla folder contains several photographs and an incident report.

Paul Krendler went to their third base of operations to check on a subject. He set up a meeting with the subject in one of the interview rooms. The subject broke from its restraints and barricaded the door.

Will isn’t able to read more than that. He’s stuck on the photos of Krendler’s body, sprawled on the floor. His eyes are open, rolled up as if staring up at his open skull. It’s a neat incision, clean all the way across. The top of his skull is removed like a helmet, a bloody dome placed not too far from his corpse.

He doesn’t know someone else is in the room till there’s a gloved hand on his shoulder, a scolding muffled by a mask as he’s torn away from the file.

He still manages to read that, according to eyewitnesses, Paul Krendler was forced to eat his own brain.

 

They find their replacement two weeks later.

“Jack Crawford,” he says, because personal introductions are apparently better for this kind of situation. His hand is extended, an inviting smile offered alongside it.

“I know,” Will hesitates before accepting the shake. Jack’s hand feels warm through the glove. “You’re replacing Krendler.”

“I wouldn’t call it replacing. It’s just…new management. You know how it goes.” Jack says, as if Will has any idea of ‘how it goes’.

“Yeah.”

Jack’s neck is craning, eyes trained on Will’s eyes. His head bobs subtly to meet Will’s own evasive twitches. “I heard you had problems with socializing? I hope that isn’t going to hurt our work together.”

“Our work?” Will echoes back, giving a soft huff of a laugh. He avoids the topic of his ‘condition’. Krendler never wanted to talk about it. Will doesn’t really want to either. A high functioning autistic who has an empathy problem; it’s a horrible dose of irony that he’s all too aware.

Jack is quiet for a moment, analyzing him. He’s trying to piece something together—what, Will doesn’t really know. He raises a hand. “May I?”

Will doesn’t tell him if he can, or if Will wants him to touch him. Jack does it anyways, placing his touch down on Will’s shoulder. A few fingers curl at the base of his neck, saved from contact by the collar of his jumpsuit. It feels like an owner sliding a collar over some stray dog they’ve found, tightening it to fit and clicking on a neat little leash to tug this feral animal around as they please.

Jack smiles. “We’re going to do great things together, Mr. Graham.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alana is practically scratching at the door to talk to him, to understand his thoughts and memories, but he can help himself. He is determined to do so if only so that he can prove he doesn’t need any coddling after all of this is over.
> 
> And it will be over. Everything ends, eventually, and so will the occasional flash of spilled blood and blank eyes and a gasping mouth. Not now, but eventually.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uuuuuh so it's official. I'm the Actual Worst. 
> 
> First off: I'm so sorry.
> 
> Second off: a lot of things happened and apparently I just can't ever make deadlines work, but here we are! Back on track and without a schedule! This train's going rogue everyone (that's not a good thing, but whatever)

There is a day of absolutely nothing. Will is taken to the cafeteria three times, and he is taken to the showers once. Jack doesn’t call for him, Alana doesn’t come to see him, and he isn’t brought along to see Chilton. He knows it isn’t to be kind or thoughtful to his own mental state; even though he hasn’t spoken to anyone about what happened, he can practically taste the panic in the air. Something’s gotten out somewhere, someone’s seen something, and now their branch is scrambling to cover it up.

It’s not the first time he’s witnessed this, of course. They’ve made their mistakes in the past. Will had heard the accounts of another meta-human that managed to fight their way out from containment. They’d shot off into the sky like a comet, only to burn out in an instant from overexertion of their powers.

The local authorities had brushed it off as a firework, (even when it was the middle of April) and reminded those around that it was illegal to set them off without a permit.

This isn’t that, though. Will can feel it. He knows it.

The guards who come for him the second day are almost surprised by his eagerness to get up and go, keeping a safe distance behind him as he strides through the hallway. Will needs to learn the details of what happened after, if only to understand the situation. He has the right to know the state of the organization, at least.

The state of Abigail Small is another matter entirely.

He is brought into the room where his sessions with Chilton usually take place, and for a moment Will believes that they’ve finally called for another appointment. Except Chilton isn’t waiting there with one leg crossed over the other, notepad in hand. There is no one seated on the other side of the table, actually. Soon, there is no one in the room besides him.

Will looks around for a moment, looking to the mirrored panel to his right, frowning at whoever hides behind it before, slowly, taking a seat.

There isn’t any reason he should feel worried. Chilton (or whoever else is joining him) might just be running late, but there’s a knot of anxiety wriggling around in his guts, causing him to twitch and fiddle with the cuffs of his sleeves. He isn’t sure if it’s his, or just a ripple from the people around him.

Five minutes pass before the door opens again, Will almost turning fully in his seat to see who it is, relaxing just slightly as Alana makes her way forwards. This relief only lasts for a moment, however, as he sees the sag to her shoulders, the shadows hiding under her eyes. It isn’t like he hasn’t seen her tired before—Will’s been witness to her moments of exhaustion after nights of reports, or just when her worry forces her to stare at the ceiling till dawn.

But this is more than that, and he doesn’t have to be an empath to see it. He says nothing until she sits. He gives Alana another cursory glance. “Sleep any last night?”

“No,” Alana says, and it sounds like she’s said it a thousand times already. Her fingers rub gently at her eye, somehow careful enough not to smudge her mascara despite her exhaustion. “The last two days have been a little rough on me. It’s nothing I can’t handle.”

Will nods as to acknowledge her reassurance, and silence has its turn at their table. He looks at her, and she alternates between him and her own folded hands.

Questions hang in the air, and Will doesn’t want to push, but he has to. Alana’s giving him nothing, obviously struggling with what news she can give him, or what she can’t. He shuffles in his seat, stuffing his hands deep into his pockets. “I’m guessing Jack isn’t too happy.”

“No, he’s not.” Alana shakes her head before looking at him with a soft expression. “This isn’t your fault, Will. None of it is. No one’s unhappy with you, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“I know that.” Will pauses. “…You can’t say I’m not at least a little to blame, though.”

“If anyone has any blame, it’s Jack. He’s the one who conducted this, and now it’s his mess to clean.”

“Does that mess include Abigail Small?”

Alana takes a moment to consider her words carefully. She already knows the question he didn’t quite ask, and Will is sure this is part of the news that she isn’t allowed to share. “We’re keeping an eye on her recovery.”

 _Recovery._ It’s not a guarantee of any kind of survival, but it’s something. The tight feeling in his chest eases some, not completely undone, but getting there. Of course, now that he knows she survived, there’s the question of what will happen to her after. Will had seen the mother fade right in front of him, and he knew they had no immediate family, so where would Abigail go? That same tight feeling returned, just as horrid as before as his thoughts swirled round and round, thinking of the possibilities as Alana went on.

“We sent a message to be relayed to the public, just to ease some of the tension. It’s a small town, and the… _events_  were unusual for the community.” She pauses. Breathes. Continues. “Before we got it out, there was another kind of report. Basically just a glorified tabloid.”

“Tattle-Conspiracy.” Will shrugs as Alana gives him a wide-eyed look. “I still have the internet. It’s the first thing that pops up when you type in ‘meta-humans’.”

There’s the question of why Will would even be searching for meta-humans, but Alana doesn’t press on the matter. She takes the information as it is, and moves on swiftly (he’s sure there are more important things for them to worry about than what he might do with his free time).

“Yes. Tattle-Conspiracy. Freddie Lounds managed to get on the scene and get a few pictures of the area.” She pauses. Her lips form a thin, tense line. “One of those pictures was of you. It wasn’t too revealing, but the author mentioned that you were the only one to go in and out of the house with blood on you, besides the bodies, so...” She leaves it there.

“So, people are looking into it, and there's no record of me.”

“Exactly.” Alana nods. “They want answers. We’re handling it as best as we can.”

The tension around the facility starts to make sense, then. Will can also imagine why Chilton’s taken his leave at the moment; he’d be the one to scurry into the shadows the second things started to get rough.

“How is that going?”

“Fine.”

He doesn’t need to try and pry for the truth. The slight uptick in anxiety and a sense of knowing is all he needs. “I’m guessing there won’t be any more field missions for a while.”

“Jack’s not pressing on them. He’ll start up again, eventually, but he’s lying low for now. We all are.”

“I’ve got restrictions again, don’t I.”

“Only for a little while. In a week or two, they’ll back off.” Alana gives him a sympathetic look. “Like I said, we’re figuring it out. Everyone’s going to hurt till this is fixed.”

He’s not worried about what might happen to him. The government won’t terminate the program because of one slip up like this; they won’t be happy for some time, and it’ll take Jack a while to gain back enough trust to go through with another project like this, but there’s no reason to think that it will affect his own wellbeing.

Alana gives him a run-down on things he doesn’t necessarily care to hear, after that. There’s a comfort in being ignorant, and he’s already been given what he really wants to know.

Restrictions are exactly what they sound like. The few privileges he has will be taken— his (very limited) internet access, occasional free range around the halls, all of it. Everything will be on lockdown until this mess is fixed,  _if_ it is fixed.

He’s seen Tattle-Conspiracy before, browsed through it once or twice before someone looked into his internet history and blocked the site from his viewing. It’s little more than a glorified blog, but it has its following. People liked sensationalized shit. Even if he’s never seen society work through news like this first hand, he has an idea of how quickly they’ll eat it up.

 

His restrictions start up a day after he speaks to Alana. He isn’t allowed outside his quarters except to take showers, and even then he’s on constrained time limits. The air around the facility, from what he’s experienced, is a strange stillness. No one moves without being monitored. Nothing is said that isn’t already scripted. Everything is carefully being controlled and contained and calculated.

Will sits on his cot, legs crossed over one another. He pulls at the almost blindingly white sock on his foot, tugging gently as he watches the TV screen ahead.

The news anchor is a blonde woman with plain features who stares out from behind her desk at nothing in particular, reporting on a story that the channel has been following for several days now.

The fact that there might be meta-humans out in the world and living amongst them instead of in cages is one thing; the possibility of them lurking around in the government, working as agents or possibly in even high positions, is alarming, to say the least, and every news station is taking the opportunity to eat it up.

The screen turns over to a reporter in the street, his breath coming out in smoky wisps against the foam microphone in his hand. A group of protesters stand in the background, their shouts muffled but their signs explaining loud and clear why they’re there. Another flip of the screen and the microphone is placed in front of the mouth of a pale woman whose mouth is too big for her face, face scrunched in frustration.  _“The public has a right to know if our government is harboring meta-humans! We have a right to know where they are, who they are, and why they’re in hiding!”_

He feels a sudden urge to shout at the TV, to reach beyond the screen and shake sense into everyone behind it.  _I’m not hiding!_ He wants to scream into the microphone, into their faces.  _They’re not harboring me from you, they’re making sure you’re safe!_

It’s a feeling that passes quickly enough, Will almost deflating as the anger seeps out at the realization that shouting will not help, and would likely only make the guards standing at the door outside barge in.

Pressing his fingertips to the space between his eyes in some hope that his budding headache would wilt with the pressure.

He takes naps more often, now. It makes the time pass faster and gives his brain reprieve from turning the events of Garret Jacob Hobbs’ death over and over—

_(Which he can still see in his mind’s eye; sunlight fitting into the kitchen, shining on his bloodstained skin, mouth split open in a panting, wild smile as he laid motionless on the floor, white eyes finally bland and dulled and away from everything here)_

He’s working on it, though. Chilton and Alana are practically scratching at the door to talk to him, to understand his thoughts and memories, but he can help himself. He is determined to do so if only so that he can prove he doesn’t need any coddling after all of this is over.

And it will be over. Everything ends, eventually, and so will the occasional flash of spilled blood and blank eyes and a gasping mouth. Not now, but eventually.

(He hopes)

 

Chilton returns, eventually.

The psychiatrist has one leg crossed over the other, his usual slight stubble having grown into something scruffier. He hasn’t lost his composure, but there’s still something stiff about him. If things get worse, Will already knows he’ll be ready to run. There’s fear there, and some scavenger instinct sniffing for an opportunity.

“It’s good to see you again.” Chilton says.

Will doesn’t respond, distracted while imagining himself as some bloated corpse lazily bobbing down a stream that a beady vulture has finally decided is ready to have its meat stripped away by a very eager beak.

“Miss Bloom hasn’t exactly been updating me on you and your wellbeing—I’m sure she’s been busy with more pressing matters, though.” He barely smiles, and shuffles to cross his other leg. A pause. “Your last trek outside must have been traumatizing.”

“It was upsetting.” Will concedes, and lets out an annoyed puff of air as Chilton stares on at him for more. “Calling it traumatic would mean psychological damage. I’ve seen people die before. It really wasn’t anything new.”

Chilton raises a brow. “But all of those instances were in a controlled environment.”

“So?” Will presses, indifference growing into agitation.

“So, it was new. A new environment, new people—an entirely new situation for you. Besides, you’ve killed people for a cause. You’ve never seen them brutally murdered and bleeding out.”

And that’s true. Will has seen people pale and stiff and lifeless, carried out in bags and through white halls to be cremated and swept under the rug, but never once has he seen someone choking on their own blood, spastic as life seeped right out of them until now.

He’s not about to let Chilton win, though, especially not when he’s poking and prodding at a spot he knows is sore. “You’re trying to psychoanalyze again, Frederick. It’s not exactly your strong suit.” Venom drips off of his every word. “Quit while you’re ahead.”

There’s a twitch of something like insult before Chilton smooths his own ruffled feathers, clicking his pen and tucking into the pocket of his suit. His notepad is left to rest on his thigh. “I can see that you’re not in the best state of mind. I understand.” His sincerity is faked fully this time, and Will can’t help but be proud he brought out this split second of true self out of Chilton. “There’s no need to be rude to someone who’s just trying to help you, though.”

Silence snakes in between them, sitting heavily in the room. Chilton seems to wait on him, expectant of some kind of retort on how he isn’t there to help, but simply examine Will like some pretty specimen and gain fame off of having contact with him.

Will actually considers it, because it’s all true. But he just sits, sinking into that quiet. He won’t give any room for satisfaction here.

Chilton finally seems to get the message, and sits back, creases forming around his eyes and between his brows. The neutrality of a bland psychiatrist is breaking. Not all the way,  (Will hasn’t done enough to get him that far, unfortunately) but it’s a start.

The tension doesn’t leave, but Chilton resumes a conversation that had never really been initiated. “Have you been experiencing any cabin fever? It must be terrible, being cooped up in your quarters.”

“I’m fine.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” Will nods. “It’s not like I had free range before.”

Chilton pauses. It isn’t silent; Will can practically hear the cogs of Chilton’s brain turning, grinding, trying to pop out some brilliant idea. He picks up his pen and presses a dot of ink against his paper. “You seem comfortable with the idea of isolation, though.”

There’s something in his tone. Will recognizes it as a threat in an instant. It’s subtle, of course; their sessions are recorded, sometimes even watched, so Chilton can’t say anything outright. He just sounds like a therapist trying to understand his patient, not someone offering silent warnings.

 Chilton wants him to comply, to spill whatever material the psychiatrist can feed into likeminded company so he can impress them.

Will knows his next action will come back to bite him in the ass, and knows that it’ll just be done out of spite.

He finds that he really doesn’t care.

“I’ve never found people to be very stimulating.” Will doesn’t meet Chilton’s eyes, but his gaze passes over him, for once very clearly unimpressed.

Chilton looks at him, uncrosses his legs and sits up a bit taller. “If that’s preferable,” he says, every word a chip of ice. “I’ll see what I can do for you.”

Chilton stands. He waits for a moment, staring, and in the next, he strides right out of the room.

 

He’s never been in solitary before.

Sure, it was something that had been threatened a few times when he was younger, but nothing had ever been done. There was too much to risk then, when they didn’t know what might negatively affect his more, malleable mind. There’d been no one to try and make a serious or valid case to put him up in some room by himself.

Chilton has acted as that force. He’s a professional, after all, and has been working with Will personally longer than any other psychiatrist has while maintaining some semblance of neutrality.

Will doesn’t know whether or not Alana might have fought against this course of action. Hell, he doesn’t even really know what kind of explanation for this treatment Will gave. All he knows is that he’d all but signed away any argument against it the moment he’d talked back.

They don’t go about it as some terrible business; the guards come to his room and inform him of the decision that’s been made, and escort him through the halls without fuss. They take him down a different route than he’s used to, Will falling behind the two just a bit to follow their lead.

One opens the door to a small, white, cushioned room, and the other gives him a gentle nudge to enter. He does so, looking around his new, temporary room as the door is shut behind him. There’s no handle on the other side; it’s just another cushioned part of the wall, the faint outline of the door just barely visible.

The room is large enough for him to lay down across the floor without a problem. It’s not nearly as big as his own quarters, but Will hadn’t been expecting some grand space to spend his time.

How long will he be in there for? It’s an important question, but not one he’d thought to ask. Even if he had, he doubted if the guards knew. Knowing Chilton, he’d likely asked for a week of solitary. Knowing Jack, he’d probably only given it a few days.

There are ways Will can bide his time. This isn’t his first case of dealing with boredom, and it won’t be his last.

 

One important thing he’d also forgotten:

Clocks.

There were no clocks in the room.

Though Will worked entirely off of artificial light, he was still able to understand what time it was. It’s hard to tell when hours pass, Will making guesses when it feels about right.

He spends what he thinks is the first two hours inspecting the room thoroughly, finding that there might be a small slot at the very bottom of the door, and that there is, in fact, a small metallic bowl he’s supposed to relieve himself in.

It’s demeaning, and he feels it right to feel more than a little indignant about his treatment, but he settles, choosing to experiment and see which corner of the room is most comfortable to sit.

It’s mindless activities, but it keeps him occupied all the same.

 

A day passes.

At least, he thinks it’s a day. After what was possibly six hours of doing nothing, Will decided to sleep. He doesn’t know how much time has been lost, but he feels well rested, so he assumes it must be five hours, maybe four. There is nothing further that he can investigate about the room, so he sits, trying to reach out into the halls to find any sort of emotion.

He finds nothing.

Sometimes, it’s hard to pinpoint someone’s feelings if they were in a different room. Without seeing them, it was harder to understand. But _this_ —it’s different. It’s a dead buzz, nothing filtering in, nothing coming out.

He’s on radio silence.

He has _never_ been on radio silence.

Will stands, moving closer to the door, pressing his hand on the cushioned wall. He reaches out again, casting a line and hoping to reel someone back in.

All he can feel is his own anxiety, rising with each moment.

It takes around thirty minutes of distress and pacing before he comes to the conclusion that nothing is wrong with him, but it’s the room that’s causing this sudden emotional blackout.

It’s not frightening, but it is concerning. Will hasn’t been left without his powers before; he’s always heard and felt and tasted the feedback of others, even if he didn’t want to. It was simply a background noise, buzzing comfortably in the back of his head, waiting for him to pick up a thread and follow it if he wanted.

Will does what he thinks is best, and takes a nap before he overthinks anything more. When he wakes, there is a tray of food laid out on the cushions, in front of the slot he’d found.

He eats, and listens to the sound of his own heartbeat.

 

Will misses his bed. He misses his TV, and his clock, and his computer that sends him warnings about restricted sites. He especially misses being able to turn the lights off, the one thing he’d hardly ever considered to be a privilege.

He curls on the ground and presses a hand to his heart, listening carefully, feeling the pounding inside his own chest. He listens to the loop of his own boredom and anxiety playing back at him, tasting copper in his mouth after too long of doing so. He needs to feel something, though.

He runs his hands over each other, allows his fingers to press and prod at his face, combing them through his hair and giving tiny tugs.

It’s been two days.

 

He has nightmares. It isn’t new.

(he chooses to ignore how he wakes up shaking)

 

_(blood seeps through his clothes. It feels like a dream. He knows, in a way, it’s not)_

 

He finds a hobby in moving.

Will stretches, shaking out his legs, his limbs, his whole body. He cracks his knuckles and his joints. He smooths his hair and then ruffles it. He clutches his sides, rubbing up and down his arms like he’s cold. All of it helps, in little ways.

When he lays down, he shakes his legs till he falls asleep, knowing he’ll wake up to food every time.

There isn’t much to do, but he’s managing.

 

His nightmares get worse.

His shirt is left discarded in the corner near the piss bowl, drenched and stinking with sweat.

It’s been four days.

 

 

_(he’s able to watch Abigail grow, nurturing his daughter and the monster inside of him at the same time. His desires are secondary, while she is young; they will consume him later, when he can’t stand the sight of her brown hair and fair skin, when he will need to destroy what he has created)_

 

Will spends most of his days laying down, falling in and out of consciousness. It feels like he’s missing a limb, his senses dulled without anyone to reach out to.

He tries to sleep when his mind goes numb.

He fails.

 

_(Garret Jacob Hobbs waits for him down every corridor of the house he never lived in, but knows every nook and cranny of. He extends a hand, a shadow reaching out across the way. Will stays steady in his spot)_

He doesn’t have to be sleeping to see Hobbs anymore.

 

 

 _See?_ He says, over and over, in the same gasping tone. Hunger lies beneath it. _See?_

Will wishes he didn’t.

 

 

He sits and listens to the ramblings of a memory come to life, skin gray and eyes a cloudy blue.

Will claws at his scalp, as if it’ll somehow release this ghost from his head.

 

 

 

 

Time has spiraled out of existence entirely by the time the door opens again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to dump on me for literally being the worst to my darling Will. I probably deserve it.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "So. We have what's possibly a group of meta-humans that has a contact within a very, very secretive branch of the government, that's communicating with other meta-humans about plans that not even the fucking president knew about?"
> 
> Price swallows thickly. "....Well. When you put it like that, it sounds pretty bad."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I call this chapter "Let Jack Say Fuck"
> 
> I also call this chapter "I'm Gonna Finish What I Started Even If It Kills Me"

Jack has barely managed to keep the phone calls away by the time he actually leaves the facility to do a few press conferences. 

It's not really in his best interest to leave, really. Will is teetering a rather dangerous line when it came to his stability- something that was perfectly understandable, really, especially after witnessing the gore firsthand, but he doesn't have a choice. He's being called by the public, reeled out from the safety of his office and into the spotlight. It's not a place he's necessarily unused to, of course. He's had his encounters here or there when it was a mess that could've been easily swept under the carpet with a single feature on a relatively big news station. 

He needs a carpet the size of a football field if he ever wants to just sweep this mess away. 

He leaves on a rather sour note, much to his own dismay. Frederick is somehow certain that solitary confinement will somehow help Will's own trauma. "He's an empath- all the stress he's feeling is just amplified by the people around him," he'd explained. "He needs some time for himself. Real-time, without the ripple of others. Will told me himself that he wanted to do this." Fredrick had smiled, then, his smug, toothless little smile. "He'll be perfectly comfortable. I'll see to his needs myself."

Jack hadn't had the time then to ask Will himself if any of that was true, already half-packed and ready to fly off to Washington. He still doesn't have the energy to try and see if there might've been some ulterior motive on Chilton's part (because even if he was government assigned, Jack still trusted him about as far as he could throw him). He elects to worry about it all later when he has a clear mind and isn't being rushed around in cars and sleeping in hotel rooms. 

He straightens the collar of his shirt, trying to make everything neat and presentable. There's a moment taken to look over the deep lines cutting his face from age and stress before he moves on, out the door and from the hotel, into a dark with even more darkly tinted windows. 

The base in Washington isn't really much to look at. Once they're taken past the security check, it's almost all parking lot, save for a small building dotting the middle. It's unassuming, painted a dull beige color with one entrance and one exit. Another security guard stands at the front, dressed as plainly as the others. Jack knows by now that this is not the only man there to protect the assets inside- he's just the only one that can be seen. 

"Crawford," he says simply, presenting his ID. The guard looks him over, absently checking at a square device on his belt. He waits for the small, yellow light on the front to flash a solid green before allowing Jack to pass. Two women working a small desk ignore him completely as he goes by, only offering a glance as he calls for the elevator at the back of the room, and then down he goes. 

The rest of this facility sprawls deeply underground, twisting around in different levels like an ant hill, lab assistants and scientists scurrying around between each to get their work done. Jack's been here far too many times to be really impressed by it anymore, having to come down for updates, offer updates from Chilton's observations on how Will is doing, and do the occasional escort of the body bags that pass through his own base. 

He watches the top of the sliding doors as -45 turns to -46, the elevator letting out a cheery  _ding_ before opening up. The hallway almost entirely made up of metal, Jack's footsteps echoing deeply throughout it as he makes his way to the door at the very end. There is already someone standing there to welcome him, offering a nod as he presents his ID once more, and steps inside. 

He doesn't wait for any greeting, entering the room and setting his eyes on what's laid out on the table. "What do we have?"

"Hello to you too," Katz says. She's standing opposite to him. She looks him over, eyes narrowing. "You said you'd bring coffee." Katz turns over her shoulder. "Didn't he say he'd bring coffee?"

"That he did," Price says, not even turning away from the screen in front of him. "I asked for vanilla iced, and you asked for-"

Jack's quick to interrupt. "I _really_ don't think your morning fixes take priority over your jobs."

Katz raises her hands in defeat, seeming to realize then that he is in no mood to play here. "Okay, okay," she concedes. As soon as she drops her hands, it's back to business, the agent moving across the table and sliding a few papers his way. "We looked into Hobbs' past a little further. No mention of any kind of government affiliation, no record of military service, so he couldn't have gotten any tips on what was coming from here, at least. He couldn't have figured it out himself- the autopsy didn't show any mutations involving telepathy, so we had to rule that out as a possibility."

"But," Price chimes in. "I did a check over his phone records. Nothing on his personal cell, but the home phone- that's where it hit. One incoming call, blocked number, that came in only fifteen minutes before Katz and her team arrived." His chair turns to face the two with a smile. "Ring ring ring, we've got a lead."

The news takes some weight off of Jack's shoulders. "And you've traced it?"

"Not exactly," Price turns back around, typing something out. "Something with the connection wasn't right. And this isn't just standard jamming I'm talking about, this is something else. I'd say some new kind of tech, but maybe that's just me- I watched some James Bond last night, sue me for trying to fantasize a little." He says. "Best theory at this point it meta-human interference. We've seen ones that allow for manipulation of different frequencies, so it isn't a stretch."

"Meta-humans helping meta-humans," Katz says. “Also something we've seen before."

Jack frowns, shaking his head. "We've seen them in small, underground formations. They didn't have the resources to get information on covert missions. The most they wanted to do was get across the border." He gives  a heavy sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose with some hope that it would somehow alleviate his own headache. There’s still a way to fix this; they always find a way to fix it. "Price, tell me you at least got a location from all this?"

"Yup. I couldn't get anything precise, but I did manage to pinpoint that the call was coming from somewhere in Italy." At the look Jack gives him, Price offers a helpless shrug. "At least it's a small country?"

That heavy weight fell right back on Jack's shoulders. "So. We have what's possibly a group of meta-humans that has a contact within a very, very secretive branch of the government, that's communicating with other meta-humans about plans that not even the fucking president knew about?"

Price swallows thickly. "....Well. When you put it like that, it sounds pretty bad."

"We're working on it." Katz moves towards him an inch, apparently trying to reassure him. "We're going to send out a team to investigate. The Italian government is cooperating with our efforts on it. In a week or two, we'll find the bastard that did this."

Really, it's not much. There's no guarantee that they'll find anything. It's been too long, and whoever has done this has too many connections to be stupid enough to just stay in one spot. But Jack has to keep some kind of hope for this shit storm to pass, and taking Beverly's words are better than nothing. Besides, he has to remember that everyone here is working their damndest to get everything back on track. It's a little more comforting, if a little selfish, to recognize that he's not the only one feeling pressure. 

"Okay, okay." Jack nods. Katz offers him a grin and hands him off a folder of their findings. Though he'd rather stay, there's really no time to chat. He was other things he has to move onto, other people to meet that will be less pleasant than the two agents. 

He turns to leave but pauses. There's a thought, something he's only had a few updates on, something that's been nagging at him for a little too long- "Katz?" She'd put her attention on Price and whatever it is that he's working on, though looks to him with a curious hum. "Have you seen the girl?"

Katz's attention is on him fully at that; even Jimmy turns a little, glancing at her with a little bit of frightened expectation. Katz nods. "She's doing pretty well. The lab boys aren't poking around too much."

That's not exactly reassuring. Jack has read the reports of when their former team had run their tests on Will and knows exactly what 'poking around' really means. It isn't his business, though; she isn't on his list of responsibilities, and he's not about to put her on there because of some misplaced concern. He offers Katz his thanks and walks away, out of the room, leaving any thoughts about Abigail in the room behind him.  

He goes down another few levels, walking out onto level -53 with a folder tucked under his arm. The next meeting he has isn't very exciting, Jack only being told the details of his next few press conferences, and the moves going forwards.

It feels demeaning, in a way. He's had his own agency for some time now, able to move pieces around as he pleases. It had been necessary for his work. Meta-humans are a force that no one quite understands just yet, and so the government had allowed him room to expand, to try and get a grip on what could and could not be done. Jack had probably been too excited in his own game, wanting to test new waters without thinking of the unpredictability of the ocean. They were showing him his place now, allowing him to see exactly where he fell on the food chain. 

In short: he'd fucked up, and he was getting one hell of a timeout. 

"This can and will be cleared up, Crawford." One of the chairmen says as the rest depart, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Some blogger with a terrible imagination isn't going to wipe you from all your operations."

Jack offers him a smile and his thanks, waving him off all the while knowing that single blogger can and very likely will wipe away any trust that the public or his superiors have in him. 

 

“How many more of these do we have to go through?”

The woman fixing his tie (her name is Anne, he thinks- it'd been hard to catch amongst the cluster of guards and reporters) meets his eyes for a second. “As many as we have to till they’re satisfied.”

“Why couldn’t we just get our public relations people on this?” Jack looks down as Anne steps back. He fixes the tie himself, loosening it some. Anne twitches slightly but says nothing about her now mussed work.

“We already had them on. The people want to speak to the man in charge, apparently. It’s easier for you to dodge questions when you’re not actually here.”

Jack lets out a small hum of understanding, but nothing more. He thinks briefly back to what he’s left behind, down to the very source of their problems. He feels something like worry, but it’s a fleeting thing. He can’t allow his mind to wander. Not right now.

Anne looks him over twice before turning to a man further back, offering a thumbs up before looking back. “Stick to the script. If anyone asks questions that hit too close, redirect them. It’s all just fluffy politics at this point.”

Jack frowns. “I’m not a politician.”

“True,” She says. “But you work for the government. Lying your ass off should be instinct by now.”

Anne gives his shoulder a pat, and he can hear the buzz of reporters waiting for him on the other side of the door.

He pushes through and is met with a blaze of camera lights and heavy murmurs. He feels each gaze snap on him, hears the clicks of recorders and pens, ready to get every word (and every mistake).

He gets to the podium, placing his hands down on either side. A speech prepared simply for an introduction to the questions is laid in front of him; he knows it well without even glancing down. He’s read through it in its drafted stages, up until the final edits.

Jack clears his throat. The crowd goes silent.

“On February sixteenth, there was an incident report in Northfield, Minnesota. I ordered a team of my own specialized unit to investigate the area, and to report back any unusual activity that might be present. This was their only assignment.” Jack pauses. “Unfortunately, it appears that the man in question, Garrett Jacob Hobbs, who went under the alias of Matt Small, was informed that we would be arriving. He murdered his spouse, Louise Small, and held his daughter, Abigail Small, in the house as a hostage. Two of my agents stayed with Louise Small, and another went inside to confront Mr. Hobbs.

This agent shot and killed Mr. Hobbs with three bullets before he could bring any harm to his daughter. This course of action was not advised but viewed as a necessary action in order to save the life of Abigail Small, who is currently recovering from her few injuries. These events and the actions of our agents should not be a reflection on how our division works within the realm of the public, and I’d ask you to look on the heroic actions of our people rather than the sensationalized bloodshed.”

It completely ignores every single question that has been tossed around by news stations, lacks the information that he knows each and every reporter there wants to pry out of him. But it’s planned and doesn’t give them anything to directly go off of, and that’s all that could have been done.

There’s a pause just as he ends his short speech, a few seconds for every reporter in the room to take in what he’s just said before it explodes into a cacophony of questions.

Jack is only barely able to hear himself sigh above it all.

He points out into the crowd, specific enough that a journalist pops up. “While your department did give out the autopsy reports of Mr. Hobbs to the public, no photographic evidence of the crime scene was made public. Is there any reason for secrecy around this?”

“The photos were not made public to maintain privacy for the remaining family members of the Small family,” Jack says. “It’s also because this is an ongoing investigation. Once we have looked everything over, all evidence will be put on public databases.” He leaves no room for further comment, pointing out to the crowd again. “Yes?”

“Will you be releasing the names of the agents that appeared on the scene?”

“No,” Jack says, which causes a heavy murmur. Another camera flashes as he raises his hand for some silence. “No, we will not be releasing the names at this time. Again, this is still an open investigation. All information will be given out at a later date.”

“Why was Mr. Hobbs being watched in the first place?” A voice rings out from amongst the seated crowd.

“That information is sensitive at this time, but the most I can say is a possible act of terrorism.”

He answers several more questions in nearly all the same way; it’s just a matter of being vague and recycling the lines he’d been told. The reporters aren’t satisfied, and the public won’t be either, but it’s all he can give.

Jack glances to the side as a reporter speaks, where Anne-Margaret stands waiting just at the door. She offers just the slightest tilt of her head. It’s really just an acknowledgment that he’s doing his job, but he takes it as approval.

“-you’re department before now?”

Jack blinks, turning his attention towards the crowd. The reporter, a young man in a blue suit, watches him expectantly. “Would you mind repeating?” He asks into the microphone.

“I said,” He starts again, sounding slightly annoyed at having to repeat himself. “Why haven’t we heard from your department before now?”

“The public _has_ heard from our department before,” Jack says. “We’re not some shadowy organization out of a conspiracy theory. We serve the people and have been active in public before to investigate meta-human activity.”

“How many years back was that?” The same reporter barks as soon as he finishes. “Thirty? Forty? Has the department just been dormant since then?” The reporter doesn’t allow Jack to speak again, even as he calls for quiet. “The Meta-Human Containment Program has been linked to the disappearances of thirteen U.S citizens over the past six years—is this your way of serving the people? By kidnapping them and sending false reports to their families?”

The cameras have turned to the reporter now, others quick to scratch down notes or press their recorders towards their peer.

Jack can feel Anne-Margaret’s stare burning into his shoulder as he speaks. “Sir, I’ll have to ask you to sit down-“

“I think the public deserves to know the truth-“

“-and let someone else ask their _questions.“_

The journalist stands to his feet. “-about your underground operations-“

“Sir, _would you please-“_

“-with meta-human soldiers that you pluck from their own homes to work under your command!" The journalist is stepping away from his seat, closer towards the podium. He turns back to the crowd, ignoring Jack's protests for him to sit back  _down._ "Jack Crawford is leading the public further into his and the governments lies! Freddie Lounds has been investigating their crimes, and-!"

Anne has called upon security already, two guards coming from either side to pull him away. He's left to rant on as he's taken, cameras flashing as he goes. Jack feels his mind go blank for a second with something like panic, practically watching the questions start to fill up the room as reporters turn to him for some kind of comment, silent but expectant. He doesn't need to look to the side for advice, knowing well that the best way to handle this is to ignore it. So he does, clearing his throat and apologizing, and moves on with the conference. 

His time is cut short for convenience, each journalist calling for his attention even as he moves back from the podium, into the waiting and very aggravated presence of Anne. She is facing down one of the security guards to his right. "I thought I said serious checks, no one from Tattle Conspiracy was supposed to be here-"

The guard makes a few lame excuses, trying to make her understand that the ID had looked authentic, that everything had seemed to check out; Jack doesn't bother to try and hear the rest, knowing he's got to get going soon before reporters find where the car is parked and swarm him outside. He makes it out, but just barely, Anne only managing to slam the door shut before a wave of photographers is over them.

She sits there on her phone, typing something out at a furious pace. He sits and fiddles with his sleeve for a moment before addressing her. "Tattle Conspiracy got in?" He already knows the answer to that one. 

"Apparently" Anne doesn't look up from her phone as she speaks. "It's fine, though. He's had his name attached to Lounds, and sneaking into a conference like that just to create some chaos? Anything he said will be irrelevant to the public." She shakes her head. "Maybe a video of the outburst will go viral, but overall, he'll end up just being another nut waving around conspiracy theories."

Jack turns, looking out the window. He sees some protestors that are wrapping around the sidewalk from the conference center. Their signs vary from vaguely pro-meta-human to completely anti-government (well, at least anti-his branch of the government). His gaze flicks over the crowd, noting with some kind of relief it's spread pretty thin, before their own out sight completely.

"Not addressing Lounds is still probably the best way of going about it. Giving her anymore traction would just worsen the situation, honestly." Anne says. "Even saying her name would give her following some reason to think that we believe she's a threat."

"Isn't she?" 

Anne sets her phone down on her thigh, looking at him seriously. "Not if we don't want her to be."

He should just be settled with that response, but there's just something that isn't sitting well with him in it, something that he can't help but address- "You said, it's probably the best way of going about it." His brow furrows. "What do you mean by 'probably'?"

There's a second of hesitation before Anne picks her phone right back up. The pace of her texting is much more relaxed than before. "I meant that she's claiming to know something about the case that the U.S government doesn't."

As Anne goes on about how even for Lounds, it's ridiculous to even claim something like that, Jack's phone buzzes in his pocket. There's a flash of Alana's name before he declines. He assumes she's just seen what went down, and he doesn't particularly feel like getting some kind of lecture from an employee when he knows he'll be hearing something harsh when he gets back to base. Jack turns back to Anne. "What's she talking about now?" 

"That it's part of something bigger. Meta-human revolutions are going to start around the globe, basically talking about some genetic war." Anne shrugs. "And she's basing all of her claims off of some anonymous tip. I thought she might've just been doing all of this for her five minutes of fame, but Christ, her fans might've rubbed some of the crazy off on her."

As his mind turns around rapidly, trying to find something solid to hold onto, Jack hummed a distant agreement. He doesn't speak even as the car rounds back up to his hotel to drop him. He doesn't sigh or groan as he enters his room, doesn't look in the mirror to check if there are any new wrinkles or if there's a new spot of grey creeping up on his hairline. Jack slips off his shoes and jacket and settles down to his computer. 

Tattle Conspiracy really isn't much to look at, really. He didn't know what he'd been expecting, really. Maybe some cheesy designs of UFO's, some large signs of announcing Freddie's absolute distrust for the government, maybe even something to do with lizard people. But it's all relatively normal, just like when he'd first seen it. It's just her writing that inflates everything, causes the drama he's currently dealing with. He's sure there'll be a new story up by midnight about the conference complaining about censorship of important information.

Jack scours the page for a moment longer before finding the article. It's only three days old. _THE NEXT WAR ISN'T FOUGHT WITH GUNS - IT'S WITH DNA._

He tries to read through it quickly, pick out what's actually important amongst all the inflammatory language and buzzwords. She talks of governments arming themselves with meta-humans, of meta-humans gathering together to form something beyond underground safehouses (and it all goes beyond a simple crime scene and a picture of an unknown man, which honestly worries some part of Jack). Only at the end is an anonymous tip thanked for this insight, Freddie vowing to keep their location disclosed if they choose to come forward with more information in the future. 

It feels just a little stupid to turn over the thought that this tip didn't just come from some nut who's obsession with conspiracy theories have gone too far, but Jack can't help it. No one knows about the call, the possibility of meta-human interferences on the investigation. To have this come out when he's only just gotten a hold of this information- it doesn't sit right with him. Freddie's always been eager to get on top of a case, but she isn't desperate enough to post something without some kind of evidence to back it up. 

Jack settles back into his chair, staring at the screen thoughtfully. It feels like he's steering a sinking ship, every plan that he's turning round in his head half-formed and unwise, all of them probably leading to more distrust from the public and his own branch.

 _Probably_. 

When he pulls his phone out from his pocket, he reads three different voicemails from Alana. Something heavy drops in his stomach, but he ignores them. When he gets back, he can deal with her disappointment in him for leaving on such short notice only to have some terribly run conferences.

He pulls back on his suit jacket and calls for a car. As soon as he gets to the base, he sends out his order. There'll be backlash for it, sure, but he doesn't care. This is no longer politics, it's personal, and Jack is giving the only reaction he sees fit for the situation. His mind is made up.

It's only right to grab the person who blew holes in the side of his ship and drag them right down to the bottom of the ocean with him. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The teacup has yet to be shattered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two updates in two days?? whhaaaaat? Crazy, I know

On a much brighter day, miles and miles away from a panicked Dr. Bloom, a determined Crawford and a fuming public, a teapot whistles.

The hands that take it up are gentle and calloused, the fine hair of arms suddenly exposed to the warm Italian sun as the pot is brought to the balcony. There, a small table is set; fine cheeses have been artfully spread on a wooden board, a bowl of grapes placed beside it. On a different tray, there are cubed meats stacked neatly on top of another. When the pot is brought to the table, the fine china set is complete. Two cups of tea are poured. 

The couple (not tied together by any romantic means necessarily, but by a bond of survival and intrigue) sit and dine, their casual conversation carried over the sweet songs of birds and the burble of activity from the street below. Another pair of hands, manicured and thin, take the cheese knife. Never once have they touched the meat. 

"Lovely day," she says, taking a sip of her tea. A bird flies low, settling into its rooftop nest across the way, setting and resetting odd twigs, plucking its own feathers out to truly make it a home. 

There is a hum as he looks down at his phone. A news alert passes over the screen, a blip in their morning and little else. It reads only:  _Freddie Lounds Arrested Along With Colleague For White House Security Breach - Live Updates._

A smile curls onto his face, light but transformative. He looks out to the horizon, beyond the seas separating them, and says, "A lovely day indeed."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to break this apart from the last chapter. It just felt right to give you-know-who his own little space to be....well, Him
> 
> also writing a tiny chapter amongst all of the other bad boys is the most freeing thing I'll just tell y'all that


End file.
